


Prisoners of Love, Blue Skies Above

by bewildered



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, season 4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-04-14 12:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 169,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4565430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewildered/pseuds/bewildered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike finds himself on the wrong side of the law, and Buffy ends up managing his rehabilitation. Unfortunately for both of them, the law just keeps on winning. </p><p>Response to “Behind Bars” challenge from Laurence Quill on Elysian Fields. </p><p>Goes AU after Something Blue. Gleefully ignores the rest of Season 4 canon, except to score cheap laughs. Warnings for gratuitous bad language, shameless bad jokes, and one bad, bad vampire. Smuttier than planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Instigation

**Author's Note:**

> Work in progress. New chapters posted at Elysian Fields (registration required) as completed, at AO3 after I've had a bit to revise for critiques, about 2 chapters behind.

Spike was pissed, in both senses of the word.

First of all, he was pissed off at everyone and everything. The fucking commandos who kidnapped him and put the kibosh on his Big Badness, and then had the fucking gall to disappear into the night before he could hunt them down for repairs. The Slayer and her fucking Scooby Gang, chaining him in the bathtub and tying him to chairs and casting fucking disgusting spells and generally being fucking insufferable. Drusilla, for fucking dumping him yet again for a disgusting fungus demon, and Harmony, for sticking to him like sparkly annoying glue, and then going all fucking liberated when he actually needed her. Fucking Angel and his fucking stupid hair, for existing in the first place. The citizens of Sunnydale, for being lined up like a fucking buffet when he was a fucking Little Match Girl, pressing his starving nose up against the glass but unable to taste a bite. Sunnydale itself, for being so fucking sunny and whitebread-suburban and pathetic. (He couldn’t wait for them to put up a new “Welcome to Sunnydale!” sign so he could knock the fucking thing down again. Or set it on fire.) Hell, fucking Man U couldn’t even put on a good game this year. Fuck them all. Fuckety-fuckety-fuck. FUCK.

Secondly, thanks to the fifth of Johnny Walker Black Label he had liberated from the liquor store, he was drunk off his ass. Which made taking his aggressions out on the storefronts of Sunnydale’s Main Street seem like a fucking brilliant idea.

Spike usually didn’t stoop to spray paint, but since slathering the walls with the blood of the innocent was no longer an option, a big red “FUCK” splashed across the granite pillars of the bank – paint thick enough to drip dramatically from the descenders – was deeply satisfying. After a moment’s thought he added an exclamation point. “FUCK!” Let the fine citizens of Sunnydale take it as a command, or a commentary on their sad little lives, or fucking performance art, as they preferred. He was open to postmodern fucking interpretations, and the word “fuck” worked for almost every part of speech. (Spike was especially partial to the verb and adjective.)

He kicked the mailbox on the street until it was skewed at precisely a 15 degree angle.

He Sharpied fangs and dripping blood onto every movie star on every movie poster at the Sunnydale Movie Theatre. (Johnny Depp and Christina Ricci. Bruce Willis. Fucking Elmo and Pikachu. Creepy-ass Uncanny-Valley Buzz and Woody. Fucking Tom Cruise didn’t deserve fangs after fucking Intervew with the Vampire, so he scribbled out his entire fucking face and made Nicole Kidman a vampire instead. That was hot. Eyes wide fucking SHUT.)

He defaced the sign for the whatever-the-hell-Protestant church on the corner, with an alchemical symbol they would probably waste hours wringing their hands over the possible Satanic meaning of, because they were fucking uneducated. (While he was at it, he corrected the spelling and grammar on their supposed-to-be-fucking-clever marquee propaganda, because he had fucking STANDARDS.)

Breaking glass was less enjoyable than usual, especially since most Sunnydale shopkeepers had wisely installed metal grates or bars to prevent the looting of merchandise. He did, however, take a special interest in the plate glass show window of the bridal shop – foolishly exposed to the ravages of a pissed-off, pissed vampire.

Spike paused to savor the moment, remembering Buffy’s description of the wedding dress she fancied, from just a few days before. Pure white (cheap) satin. (As if he didn’t know better than to think she should be wearing WHITE after fucking (verb) fucking (adjective) ANGEL.) Sweetheart neckline. Poufy Princess-Fucking-Di sleeves. Pearls and lace and fucking sequins all over the fucking bodice.

He spray-painted a huge red heart in the middle of all the fucking embellishment (shoddy fucking work anyhow), then slashed it to ribbons with a shard of the plate glass. Briefly wished he had a Polaroid so he could take a fucking picture of his handiwork, give it to fucking Buffy fucking Summers. Make her fucking think twice about the Lips of Spike, ‘cause he was pretty fucking sure she’d be missing those, fucking spell or not.

Mischief managed, he settled down to admire his handiwork, using the conveniently-angled mailbox as a backrest. The Johnny Walker was fairly smooth going down, which pissed him off more because he could have nicked something cheap with a good Big-Bad burn, or else gone for the fucking Glenfiddich and un-lived it up real good, but he’d been in a hurry and settled for something in the middle, and now it made him feel fucking mediocre. But he drank a fucking toast anyhow, to the bank and the movie theatre and the church and the wedding dress and FUCKING BUFFY SUMMERS, and closed his eyes for just a moment.

\---

Two hours later, Officer Kemp surveyed the scene, wishing to God he would get assigned to a desk job already, because the night shift in Sunnydale sucked swamp water. Become a policeman! he thought bitterly. Get a pension, write speeding and parking tickets, eat donuts! That may be how it was for the dayshift cops, but Sunnydale at night was all corpses with shredded necks (coyotes), weird sacrificial rituals (heavy metal fans), and gangs on PCP. And on top of that, no Sunnydale donut shops were willing to stay open past sundown. What was up with that? If he had to deal with all the weird crap, not to mention incessant donut jokes from the citizenry, he could at least get some frickin’ DONUTS out of the deal.

Dammit, his kids loved Toy Story 2. They were going to get nightmares from that poster.

His partner, Damien Thomas, was warily leaning over to inspect the unconscious Billy-Idol wannabe slumped against the mailbox. Innocent until proven guilty, reasonable doubt, yadda-yadda, but Kemp’s keen law-enforcement instincts – helped along by the spray paint, permanent markers, and other vandalism-related paraphernalia spilling out of the 80s-reject’s pockets – suggested fairly strongly that they had found the perpetrator. It’s community service for you, buddy. Maybe in an orange jumpsuit. I’ll come watch.

Officer Thomas had a frown on his face as he first held his hand in front of the (alleged ha ha) vandal’s face, then felt for a pulse. “Nelson, I think he’s dead.”

“Really?” Goddammit, if he’s dead, who’s going to clean all this up? Kemp wasn’t above providing a second opinion; he squatted down next to the body. “Think the coyotes got him?” The reek of booze was overpowering, but he took a deep breath and scooted closer for a better look, boots scuffing along the splayed-out duster.

The corpse’s eyes opened, outraged.

“Oi! Get off the coat! You’ll bruise the leather!”

“JESUS CHRIST!” Kemp jumped back, landing awkwardly on his ass. What the hell just happened to his face? Were those fangs? But now that the leather was safe, the boozehound had subsided back into sleep or coma or maybe being dead again, and he just looked like any other passed-out druggie punk.

Thomas was clutching at his chest, eyes bugged out. “Did you see that? He has yellow eyes! So help me, God! Yellow eyes!”

Yellow eyes… Kemp thought back to the briefings they had received over the past few years, situations they could expect to run into when patrolling the streets of Sunnydale. There had been something about yellow eyes and fangs and lumpy faces… That was it!

“Cuff him and let’s bring him to the station. This man is obviously a gang member on PCP.”

\---

The Sunnydale Police Station was relatively calm when they arrived, which was not surprising at 5 am on a Tuesday, but still something to be grateful for. It had taken both of the policemen 10 minutes to haul the dead weight of their prisoner to the back seat of their patrol car, and another 20 to tape off the crime scenes so the CSI team could come by later to collect all the evidence, but during that time the perp had awakened and started singing. Not that Kemp didn’t appreciate not having to check again to see if the bozo was dead, but the songs were some crap about lobotomies and shock treatment and wanting to be sedated, and by the time they rolled into the station dropoff point, Officer Kemp was ready to grant all three wishes. Also, what the hell did “Gabba-Gabba-Hey!” mean? Was it some secret gang code?

They frog-marched their prisoner into Central Booking and walked him through the various stages of incarceration. Fingerprinting. Mug shots. Confiscation of personal property. Through it all, the obnoxious blonde swaggered (well, staggered with attitude) and grinned and flirted with every woman in the station. (From their reactions, Kemp suspected there were going to be some reprints made of the bastard’s mug shot, and possibly some erotic fiction written and passed around. The night-shift ladies were a little scary.)

They hit a bit of a snag when they reached the personal-information part of the process. The prisoner had no id cards, no credit cards, no checkbook, no records of any kind, and he was… less than cooperative. And still very, very drunk. And an asshole.

First name: Spike. Ooooo-kay. (“Your mother give you that name?” “You’ll leave my mother out of this if you know what’s good for you.”)

Last name: Unknown. (“None.” “Nunn? N-U-N-N?” “No, NONE. As in, no last name. I’m like bleedin’ Madonna.”)

Current Address: Unknown. (“Been stayin’ with a chap. Cheap bastard, won’t share the good Scotch. Lookin’ for a place o’ my own right now. Got any recommendations?”)

Former Address: Unknown. (“Somewhere in Prague.” “Frog? That’s a town?” “For Heaven’s sake, PRAGUE. Soddin’ Czechoslovakia. Well, Czech Republic now. Read a newspaper sometime, yeah?”

Social Security Number: None. (“Do I sound American to you?” “What country are you from, then?” “Wouldn’t you like to know.”)

Finally Kemp slapped the manila folder shut on the woefully-incomplete paperwork, glaring at the prisoner, who was carefully picking off bits of black nail polish, occasionally checking the overall effect with a judicious frown. There were only about 10 minutes until shift change, and until the fingerprint results came in from AFIS, there wasn’t anything more Kemp could do. But in the meantime, something had to be done with the (incredibly annoying) perpetrator.

Time to consult with the Police Chief. He dialed from the front desk, under the eyes of his partner and the incoming day shift and an ever-increasing cadre of Spike-no-last-name groupies.

“Chief? We have a situation here. No, no missing ears. It’s… well, you remember last year? The gangs on PCP? Yeah, we got one of those. ….No, not a gang. Just a guy. But he’s, um, on PCP.” Long pause. “10-4. Thanks, Chief.” Officer Kemp hung up the phone.

“So, what does he want us to do with him?” Officer Thomas crossed his fingers, praying the answer was “dump him outside and forget you saw anything” because that would make his life so much easier. (Also, he was still wigging out about the yellow eyes, though now that they were in the station they looked just plain blue.) Kemp was quick to dash his hopes.

“Pick him up, boys. He’s going to the Special Cell.”

Spike grinned cheekily as they marched him down the corridor. “Well, isn’t that special.”

\---

Spike was nowhere in sight when Buffy and Willow arrived at Giles’s apartment to report on last night’s slayage before class, and that was totally fine with her. It was so very… peaceful.

“So, finally get tired of his lip and stake him? Did you videotape it so I can watch?”

Giles grimaced. “No, of course not. I could never kill a helpless creature under my care, even one with such regrettable taste in football teams and…everything else he apparently enjoys. No, he managed to wriggle free from his bindings and, according to the note he kindly left, went off to get ‘bloody well pissed.’” Buffy gave him a don’t-pull-that-British-slang-with me look. “That means drunk. It being clear from the past few days that he is indeed incapable of harming a human being, I felt it best to allow him his night of empty revelry and bitter disappointment. I expect he’ll show up under a flaming blanket approximately five minutes before Passions airs, as he did not request that I record it, and my understanding is that Timmy is in danger of some sort.”

“Huh. Wriggled free? Did we not tie him tight enough?”

“I suspect it was not the knot that was at fault, but the fact that, for the third night running, we neglected to bind his arms.”

“Oh yeah. You’d think we wanted him to disappear from our lives.” Buffy brightened. “Maybe he got run over by a truck. A big truck. Full of sharp wooden implements.”

Giles sighed. “Somehow, I doubt it. That would be far too convenient. But if you are concerned, you are welcome to go hunt him down.”

“Nah. I’m pretty sure wherever he’s at now, I don’t want to be.” Buffy gave Giles a quick rundown of the previous night (two vamps, a slug-demon, and a couple of minor imps), then joined Willow on the couch, with one of the many plates of cookies still scattered around the apartment. Giles planned on making tea, which for Buffy would mean 2 minutes with a microwave, but apparently for Giles meant an elaborate process of warming pots and heating water to a precise temperature and all sorts of ridiculous hocus-pocus. She was pretty sure most arcane spells took less fuss.

“So, how are things going with Riiiiiiiiley?” Willow grinned around a mouthful of cookie.

Buffy sighed. “Actually, we’re… not exactly together anymore.”

Willow’s face fell. “Aw, man! What happened? It… it wasn’t the engaged-to-Spike thing, was it? Do I need to start baking cookies again?” Her eyes widened in horror. “Do we have to skip Psychology today? Because I brought all my colored pens, and…”

“No, not at all!” Buffy hastily reassured her friend. For the love of God, no more cookies! “We were ok after the… thing… and no need to be all avoidy. It was amicable. It’s just… I got to thinking. The whole Spike thing was… gross, and inappropriate, and all of that, because Spike, but… the way I felt under the spell? That’s how I want to feel when I’m in love.”

Willow looked a little confused, but nodded encouragingly.

“It’s like… Well, Riley’s a good guy. He’s cute, and nice, and he likes me, and he’d probably be really good for me, especially after Angel. But it’s like… opening up the fridge and all that’s in there is lowfat yogurt. And you know, yogurt’s good for you and all, and it tastes fine, and maybe it has some fruit or something to make it seem exciting, but then right next to the fridge is a freezer that has a tub of Häagen Dazs somewhere inside. If I didn’t know about the Häagen Dazs, I might be ok settling for the yogurt, you know? But now that I know it’s there, and I know what it tastes like, I kinda want to dig around and find the ice creamy goodness instead.”

“…Spike is ice creamy goodness?”

“No, not Spike! The love part, with the smooching and the working together and the happy stuff. I’m not holding out for Spike. I’m holding out for Häagen Dazs. I’m betting if I dig a little more, I’ll find it. Him. You know.”

“I think I get it. SO…” Willow munched on another cookie, speaking through the crumbs. “Riley is lowfat yogurt, and your future not-Spike man is premium ice cream…. in our fabulous world of dairy products, what was Angel?”

“I am NOT going to speculate on what dairy product Angel might have been. He’s in the past. Past his sell-by date. Expired.”

“Well, ok then. It’s a convoluted metaphor, but I think I got it now. But poor Riley! You let him down gently?”

“Yeah, I guess. He actually seemed a little relieved.” Buffy pouted a bit at the memory. “I think he thinks I’m too high maintenance. And I’m not high maintenance at ALL.”

Eyeroll. “No, not at all.”

“I just want a guy who loves me completely, treats me like a princess but lets me fight my own battles, and kisses like Sp—like Häagen Dazs.”

Willow narrowed her eyes. “You were going to say ‘kisses like Spike,’ weren’t you?”

“No! Nonono…. Maybe?” Oh dammit, she’s got her Resolve Face on… “Okay, you know I don’t want Spike, right? Because he’s evil, and gross, and a murderer, and so on. But…” Buffy double-checked to make sure Giles wasn’t close enough to overhear. “OH MY GOD can he kiss!”

“Oh, REALLY.” Willow’s face wavered between fascinated and appalled. “Wow.”

“No, seriously. I always thought tongues were kinda gross, but now I totally get it! Like, if you could take Spike’s lips, and his kissing ability, and transfer them over to a decent human being? I would snatch that man up in a HEARTBEAT.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, wow.” Buffy’s mind wandered off for a moment on the lovely idea of someone who kissed like Spike but wasn’t in fact an evil, soulless vampire, but eventually drifted back to the realization that Willow was watching her warily. “What?”

“Oh, nothing. Just… Let’s not share this conversation with Xander, ok?”

“Definitely not.” Maybe another cookie would help her get her mind off the Lips of Spike. ”So, what about you?”

“Me? Oh, um… I’m still getting over Oz, you know…”

“I know, but maybe what you need to get over him is to go on a few dates! Find someone safe and dependable and kind…. Hey, you should totally go out with Riley!”

Willow dropped her cookie, fumbling to gather the crumbs off Giles’s couch. “Me? And Riley?”

“Yeah, I totally thought he was after you for the longest time. You’re so smart, and so with the not-dropping-books-on-his-head… And he always has nice things to say about you.”

“He does?” Willow smiled a bit, thinking. “Huh.”

“Just think about it. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. And maybe you’ll meet someone else. You never know.”

“Maybe.” Willow seemed dubious again. “I don’t exactly have a good history with the, you know, talking to people and stuff like that. Not as bad as it used to be but…”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. Your perfect someone is out there, just waiting. And so is mine.” Buffy finished up her cookie with a determined chomp. Yessiree, she was going to find her perfect someone. Her yummy, delectable tub of Häagen Dazs. Maybe even that very day.

And other than the kissing, he was going to be one-hundred-percent not like Spike. 

 

End Chapter 1

Coming up next: Interrogation

 

Chapter 1 Author's Notes:

Officers Thomas and Kemp are named after the friends who got me into Buffy – Michael and Lynne, who suggested I get Amber Benson to autograph my copy of Glitter and Mayhem (she was so sweet it made me decide to take the Buffy plunge) and Jennifer and Mel, who then loaned me their Buffy DVD Box Sets for an extended period of time so I could binge-watch them obsessively. Someday they'll get them back. Jennifer also refuses to watch any of the Toy Story movies because they creep her out.

Story name is from The Producers, and is a lyric from the musical comedy they produced from prison. 

The movie posters Spike defaced are: Sleepy Hollow, The Sixth Sense, Elmo in Grouchland, Pokemon: The First Movie, Toy Story 2, and Eyes Wide Shut.

Gratuitous quotes (or near-quotes) from: A Christmas Story, Firefly/Saturday Night Live


	2. Interrogation

Detective Erikson hated coming in in the morning, because inevitably the night shift had some wacko problem they hadn’t been able to solve, and inevitably it ended up on his desk.

Today it was some bleach-blond vandal who had laid waste to Sunnydale’s beautiful, historic downtown shopping district, and refused to hand over identifying information so they could book and prosecute him properly. The evidence from the scene was rock-solid; the person they had in custody had left fingerprints all over the vandalized property and the tools of vandalism, which had been found in his possession. They had their guy. The problem was figuring out who the hell he was.

The AFIS report on the prisoner’s fingerprints had just been added to his desk. It was ten times as thick as any AFIS report he had ever seen. It was also completely useless in a court of law. Apparently fingerprints belonging to this “Spike” were on record for all sorts of mysterious deaths from two years ago, and again from just a few months ago, here in Sunnydale. That would be all sorts of useful – if they didn’t also show up on mysterious deaths and obscure crimes all over the world, dating back as far as the AFIS database reached. Farther than the maybe-thirty suspect could possibly have been alive, much less committing homicide. Defense would have a field day with that on discovery. And if in the process they managed to cast doubt on the effectiveness of the AFIS identification system, the repercussions for the larger world of criminal prosecution would be completely devastating. Fingerprinting was the cornerstone of modern criminal justice. Weaken that support, and criminal justice would be effectively impotent. Convictions overturned. Mass-murderers on the street. Dogs and cats living together. MASS HYSTERIA.

Meanwhile, nowhere in the AFIS database were the fingerprints matched with an identity of any kind. And almost all of the Sunnydale cases had been closed with the conclusion of “coyote attack.” Erikson had closed a number of them himself. (He had never seen a coyote in Sunnydale, but apparently they were a stealthy and prolific local menace.)

No wonder Erikson was going bald.

Then again, maybe this was his big chance. Massive problems with the fingerprint evidence wouldn’t mean squat if he could get a viable confession out of the punk bastard. If he managed to break this suspect, get him to confess to even a fraction of these cases – a confession was worth more than any fingerprints or DNA or trace evidence. With that, the vandalism case would be gravy. He could write a goddamn book.

He would call it “Bloody Spike.”

He wouldn’t write it himself, of course, but once he was famous for nailing such a prolific, vicious serial killer to the wall, he could hire a ghostwriter, just put his name on the thing. Rake in the royalties. It’s not like writing was hard or anything.

No, it was all about the interrogation. And he was going to interrogate the hell out of this vintage punk, until he confessed to not only the vandalism, but also all those mysterious deaths, and maybe the Zodiac killings too while he was at it.

Erikson drummed his fingers on the useless AFIS report in anticipation. This was going to be fun.

\---

Spike knew he could have broken out of the holding cell any time he wanted to, but what the hell, he had time to kill until Passions came on in the afternoon, and toying with Sunnyhell’s Finest was a hell of a lot more fun than being tied up in the Watcher’s flat. Even sober.

It was refreshing to be treated like the Dangerous Threat to Society that he was. (Well, ok, used to be, but he would be again, and in the meantime he was still Really Evil and worthy of some bleeding respect.) The officer who booked him had been visibly frustrated, his partner had been gratifyingly skittish, and the SPD ladies had swooned at his raw animal magnetism. (Also possibly his ass, which he damn well knew was a damn fine posterior.) In short, they treated him like the Big Bad, which was a breath of fresh fucking air after the fucking Scoobies’ mockery and abuse and (worst of all) lack of fear. He didn’t even mind that they had confiscated his smokes and lighter and liquor, though of course he’d be getting those back on his way out the door. Along with anything else in the personal-effects bins that took his fancy. Really his only concern was that the taser-wielding crew-cut-commandos might get a line on his whereabouts via hacking – and that seemed unlikely, given the relative technology level of the S-bloody-P-D. (Paper was nigh-impossible to hack.)

After an hour or so, they had moved him to a grey, windowless room with an obviously fake mirror (from behind which he was being watched by (he counted heartbeats) three people, one of whom was a Spike fangirl) and a prominent video camera (which would undoubtedly be turned off at a suitably dramatic moment in the interrogation). He was chained to a dull metal table (bolted to the floor) with a flimsy set of handcuffs, and left to cool his heels. Spike silently applauded their theatrical sensibilities; he had a fine sense of theatre himself.

He slouched carelessly in his (deliberately) uncomfortable chair and began to whistle. This was going to be fun.

\---

Detective Erikson had planned on waiting until the prisoner started to get nervous at the isolation, but when the irritating punk escalated his whistling to singing something about Judy being a punk, he set his plan into motion, slamming into the interrogation room with a couple of uniforms carrying file boxes with “Spike” written on the side. Normal police strategy suggested that the boxes be filled with blank paper, the boxes being simply a tool of intimidation, but in this case they had enough cases via AFIS to fill two boxes and have files left over. Erikson carried the vandalism file himself, thick with photos and victim statements. He slapped it onto the table, seated himself, and clasped his hands before him, regarding the suspect with a steady gaze.

Spike met his eyes, and upped the ante with a raised eyebrow.

They sat. And stared.

Erikson narrowed his eyes.

Spike smiled.

Erikson leaned back slightly.

Spike leaned forward slightly.

Erikson’s fingers twitched.

Spike whistled the opening bars of “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly.”

One of the uniforms (Lin? He was pretty sure it wasn’t Officer Michaels, since he’d caught her mooning over the vandal’s mug shot…) snickered, and Erikson sighed, making a mental note to have a word with the new recruits about the Reid technique, and how reacting to the suspect’s attempts at humor didn’t fit in with it. Or any interrogation technique he intended to employ. But now that the staring contest had been rudely ended, he might as well move on.

He opened the file folder and spread out the photos from the crime scene. Spray paint. Permanent markers. Broken glass and dented metal and one brutally mutilated wedding dress. Glossy eight-by-10s, fresh from the photo lab, the carnage harshly flashlit and exhaustively documented.

Most suspects, hung over and faced with the prospect of incarceration, would pale or flinch at the sight of a mountain of evidence against them. Spike picked up each photo one by one, regarding them with careful consideration. When he was done, he favored Erikson with an encouraging smile.

“These are quite nice. I especially like the lighting in…” Spike pointed at the photo of the church sign. “…this one here. You have a good eye for composition, and they brilliantly represent the timeless theme of ‘Man’s Inhumanity to Man.’ I’m sure you can find a gallery that will hang them. In fact, I know a lady, usually goes for antiquities but she might give you a chance.” With a fingertip, he caressed the photo of the wedding dress, casting a charming glance up at Michaels. “Any way I might get a reprint of this one, luv? Just slide it in the box with my smokes, there’s a good girl.”

Michaels sighed. So did Erikson, but with a bit more can-you-believe-this-guy, and a lot less imagining-this-guy-naked.

Gathering up the photos, Erikson shoved them back into the file with a little more force than absolutely necessary. “Besides catching you literally red-handed at the crime scene – gotta watch out for that spray paint, buddy – we have your fingerprints on every vandalized object, and on every tool. All of the tools were found in your possession, while you were publicly intoxicated. That’s at least 5 misdemeanors, not to mention a federal charge for tampering with the U.S. Mail. Besides putting you to work cleaning up the damage, we can keep you in jail for a long, long time.”

“Can you, indeed.”

“Oh, we can. Now, I might be willing to drop one or two of the charges, but here’s the catch: I have to be able to tell the D.A. that you cooperated with the investigation.”

Spike spread his hands as well as the handcuffs allowed. “As I see it, I’m being very cooperative. Haven’t even asked for a lawyer, though I’m quite certain I was not read my rights. Might want to have a word with your boys.” A sidelong glance to Michaels intimated that she was, of course, not included in his criticism. She sighed again.

“All I need,” Erikson gritted out, “is your NAME.”

“Gave you m’name. Spike.”

“Your whole name.”

Spike grinned wickedly. “That is my whole name.”

Erikson stood up, slamming his hands on the table. “Listen up, dirtbag. You and I both know this isn’t just about the vandalism. It’s about the murders.”

“Murders? Heavens!” Spike’s eyes widened theatrically. “Which murders do you mean?”

“THESE murders.” Erikson ripped the lid off the nearest box and started pulling out file folders, laying them out on the table. Spike started to flip through them.

“Oh, yeah, these two are mine. Took the girl they were with to Dru. Don’t have a file for her, of course… Not mine. Mine. Not mine. CERTAINLY not mine. Oh yeah, this was a good one. She put up a good fight. Mine. Mine. Mine. This one’s Dru, she had an eye for the little nippers…”

Erikson stopped pulling out files. “You’re confessing to all of these murders?”

“Not all of them,” Spike scoffed. “I mean…” – he gestured at one of the files that he had designated not his – “I have better taste than THIS.”

That was easier than I thought it would be. Visions of the New York Times Bestseller List dancing in his head, Erikson sank back into his seat and picked up a notepad and pen. “Why don’t you start over, and tell me everything.” He could get the goddamn name later.

“Everything?” Spike frowned. “Dunno as I can rightly tell you EVERYTHING. Don’t expect I can remember all of them. There were so many, and some of them weren’t much to talk about, even when they’d just happened. Tell you what…” He leaned in as if conferring a favor. “I’ll just tell you all the good ones, yeah?”

“Right. Just… tell me as many as you can remember. Start at the beginning.”

“The beginning?” Spike tilted his head to the side with a grin. “You’re sure, then?”

“Oh, I’m very sure.”

“Well then.” Spike shifted to a more comfortable position. “It all started in ’80, right after I got together with Dru – that’s Drusilla, D-R-U-S-I-L-L-A, spell it right…”

\---

An hour later, Erikson was scribbling frantically on his third notepad. “So, you left Transylvania with Drusilla and this… Darla? In ’98?” Oh, man, I can publish TEN books with this.

“Yeah, Darla. She was a right bitch.”

“Oh, I’m sure she was. Where did you go next?”

“Hmmmm….” Spike stared at the ceiling for a moment. “Next good one… Oh, that’d be China. That was brilliant, even with Darla there, and Angel when His Brooding Foreheadship deigned to show up. That was in ought-zero, ringing in the new century with a good spot o’ violence. And fireworks too, the Chinese sure knew how to throw a rebellion. So anyhow, me and Dru, we…”

“Wait. Just wait a minute. When did this happen?

“I just said. Ought-zero. You have been paying attention, haven’t you?” Spike blinked innocently.

“It’s 1999.”

“Why, so it is. I was in fact aware of the year.”

“You can’t have gone to China in 2000, because it hasn’t happened…

“Now, when did I say the year 2000? This was in the other ought-zero. 1900.” Spike reached for the stack of notepads. “You haven’t been mucking up my best stories with the wrong century, have you?”

Erikson lurched to his feet, gathered up his notepads and his file and his pen, and stomped out of the room. He could hear Lin and Michaels scurrying to collect the file boxes, and the Most Annoying Perp Ever cheekily calling after him, “We done, then?”

\---

Erikson was surprised to find Officer Thomas in the observation room. “Weren’t you on last night?”

Thomas shrugged. “Yeah, but I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing those yellow eyes… So I came to see how the case was going.”

So glad to have had an audience, Erikson thought bitterly. Still, Thomas didn’t look disappointed that Erikson had been taken in by the cunning lies of a lying liar who lied through his goddamn teeth. In fact, he looked… excited?

“I think I know what’s going on!” Thomas grinned.

“That makes one of us.” Erikson was not exactly in the mood for wacky theories, but it’s not like he had anything to go on at this point.

“Our suspect,” Thomas paused for effect. “Is a LARPer.” He beamed as if waiting for praise to be heaped upon him, or maybe a major award.

Erikson waited for an explanation, but when none was forthcoming, he wearily asked, “What the hell is a ‘larper.’”

“LARPer, as in Live Action Role Playing. It’s like… You know Dungeons and Dragons?”

Erikson didn’t, but he nodded anyhow.

“Well, it’s like that, except instead of rolling dice and just saying what your character does, you get together and dress and act like your character, and act it out, like a play except you make it up as you go along.”

What the hell was this, frickin’ Mister Rogers and the Land of Make-Believe? “Grownups do this?”

“Well, yeah. It can get kind of expensive, so it’s hard for kids to participate as fully.” Officer Thomas started waving his hands around in his enthusiasm. With all the talk of let’s-pretend, he looked like a manic Muppet. “There’s a whole bunch of them, not just Dungeons and Dragons, there’s werewolves and historical societies and…oh, what was it called? Something, the Masquerade...”

“What does this have to do with…” Erikson glared daggers through the mirror-window. Spike was whistling again. “…THAT?”

“No, listen. Sometimes the players make up these really elaborate back-stories for their characters. Like, all the stuff they did before the game started, to explain why their characters act the way they do. So maybe this Spike, that’s this guy’s LARP persona. So when he’s talking about what he did in 1900, it’s not what HE did, it’s what his CHARACTER did.”

“So, these LARPers.” Erikson cut to the chase. “Do they actually believe that they ARE their… characters?”

“Noooo….” Thomas admitted. “But there was this movie. With Tom Hanks, before he got all respectable. My mom made me watch it, because I checked out Lord of the Rings from the school library and she thought I was getting in with a bad crowd… But anyway. They were live-action role-playing, and then Tom Hanks had a psychotic break, and started actually believing he was his character! And he never got better! It was so sad, I cried.” Erikson looked at him. “Well, I was twelve. And it’s ok for boys to cry. This IS the ‘90s. Anyhow, maybe this guy has some psychological issues, and he actually thinks he’s telling the truth.”

Erikson folded his arms furiously. “Oh, he has psychological issues, all right. His ISSUE is that he’s a LYING ASSHOLE.”

Thomas looked devastated. Erikson hoped he didn’t still think it was okay to cry, now that he was a goddamn adult policeman instead of a twelve-year-old wuss.

“No, we can get him to tell us what we want.” For any other suspect, he would have said “get him to start talking,” but it was clear that Spike had no problem at all TALKING. It was getting him to say something worthwhile. And then getting him to shut the hell up.

 

A few hours later, Erikson had not only kissed his book goodbye, but also a goodly chunk of his sanity, and no small amount of his ego.

He tried a classic “Good Cop/Bad Cop” routine, gladly playing the Bad Cop while crybaby Thomas took on the Good Cop role. Spike laughed at the Bad, laughed harder at the Good, pointed out for good measure that he himself was in no way Ugly, and suggested they try it on someone who hadn’t been born yesterday.

He sent in Officer Michaels, a couple of buttons strategically unbuttoned, to work her feminine wiles. After five minutes, she turned off the video camera. By the time Erikson stomped into the room, she was blushing and giggling like a teenager, and he would swear she’d lost another button or two. Spike grinned smugly as she was ushered out the door.

Erikson threatened and cajoled. He pulled out his old Criminology textbooks and tried all the old tricks of psychological manipulation, and the new ones too. He found himself wistfully thinking about the Good Old Days, when torturing suspects was not only permissible, but encouraged. (He didn’t even care if it would get him a confession at this point; he just wanted to be able to punch the peroxided pest in the nuts without losing his job.)

When the Police Chief put in an appearance, he was done. Just done. He didn’t even care if he looked bad in front of the entire police force. He just wanted to never, ever see the blond menace again.

“Can’t we just… get rid of him?” he desperately asked Chief Benson. Maybe the Special Cell is equipped with a trapdoor over a vat of acid…

Benson frowned slightly. “We can’t just let this man out on the streets. He’s obviously a menace to society.”

“He’s a menace to my SANITY,” Erikson muttered under his breath.

Benson thought a moment more. “He doesn’t sound American. He sounds British. Perhaps we could deport him.”

This was the best idea Erikson had heard all day.

\---

Unfortunately, when he went in to break the news to the prisoner (soon PLEASE GOD to be an ocean and the whole width of the continental U.S. away), he was met with derision.

“Deportation? Where you gonna deport me to, then?”

“Um… England? Your accent sounds English.” Oh, please, let him be sentimental for Jolly Old England. Please please please…

Spike was having none of it. “Oh, does it now? What part of England then? Yorkshire? London? Got a lot of different accents, England has.”

“Uh…”

“See, you don’t know. I might not be English at all, yeah? I could be from Australia. Or New Zealand. Or hell, India. Time was that the sun never set on the British Empire, and everywhere those Brits lived, they left accents behind. Average chap in America can’t tell London from Leicestershire. You want to deport me to England? Prove I’m English.”

“But…”

Spike stood up and planted his hands on the table, just at the limits of the handcuffs. “Maybe I just watch a lot of Monty Python, yeah? Nudge-nudge, wink-wink, say-no-more, just-a-flesh-wound, huge-tracts-of-land, wafer-thin-mint, spam-spam-eggs-and-spam, Jehovah-Jehovah, bloody-ex-PARROT!” He finished with a flash into game-face, then abruptly dropped back into his seat, whistling.

Detective Erikson stared stonily at him for a moment more, then left the room without another word.

\---

Back in the Special Cell (which, disappointingly, looked like any other prison cell), Spike came to the conclusion that he had had all the fun the SPD was likely to give him. (He had waited a half hour after the last bit of interrogation, just in case one of the ladies in uniform planned to come back and “read him his rights,” but apparently the day shift supervisor was actually supervising things.) Also, it was getting close to 2:00 and he was worried about Timmy. Time to blow this popsicle stand.

Maybe on the way out, one of the ladies would offer to blow his popsicle. That would be brilliant too.

Settling his duster across his shoulders, Spike swaggered over to the bars separating him from the corridor and pulled.

Much to his surprise, the bars didn’t move an inch.

He shifted to his game-face, which made him just a tad stronger, and tried again. They didn’t budge.

He yanked and wiggled and kicked the bars, with no results. Ran the narrow width of the cell and smashed into them with his shoulders. When even that didn’t help, he kicked at the painted cinderblock walls on every side. Not only did they not disintegrate at the mighty impact of his Doc Martens, the paint wasn’t even chipped.

It slowly, horrifically dawned on Spike that the Special Cell was actually SPECIAL. That the bars and walls – which looked just as pathetic and fragile as any jail cell he had ever broken out of – had been magically or physically reinforced to prevent supernatural creatures, such as himself, from escaping. That he was, in fact, a prisoner. Really a prisoner.

There was only one thing to do.

“Oi!” he shouted frantically down the corridor. “Don’t I get a bloody phone call?”

\---

After a slightly-awkward Psychology lecture (Buffy was pretty sure Professor Walsh knew she had dumped Riley, but it was hard to tell for sure, because she always looked mad), Buffy wandered back to Giles’s place, so that she could make fun of Spike some more, and also work on saving Giles from the Great Cookie Plague of 1999. (Willow had stayed after class, possibly to take Buffy’s advice and comfort poor, grieving, newly-available Riley, but more likely to try and squeeze a few extra ounces of psychology knowledge out of Walsh.)

Oddly, Spike was not there. Giles was frowning at the instruction manual for a VCR. The TV was on, the closing credits for some-soap-opera-or-other trailing across the screen.

“Hey, Giles. Finally joining the twentieth century? You do know that another century is starting up in just a bit here, right?”

“Yes, of course,” Giles said distractedly.

“So, what, are they going to have a special on the Ten Oldest and Crustiest Ancient Tomes in the World? A tea documentary you just can’t miss?” Buffy gasped theatrically. “Do you think they’ll come down on the side of sugar cubes?”

“What? Oh, no, I was just…. Well, regardless of my personal feelings, Spike is a guest, and I am British. I find that however much I want to, I cannot disregard his apparently deep-seated psychological need to know what is going on with poor Timmy. I just need to figure out how to operate this… contraption of his. I was rather expecting him back before now.”

Buffy rolled her eyes, stuck the blank videotape into the VCR, and pressed “record.” Unaware, Giles continued to peruse the manual.

The phone rang, and with an air of deep relief, Giles handed the manual to Buffy (who tossed it behind the couch) and went to answer. Buffy helped herself to the next-cookie-plate-in-line and, since she was there (and bored) started to watch Passions. One of these days they had to make it so you could record one thing and watch something else. That would be really cool. Hey, maybe you could do that now? Where had that manual gone?

Wait, Timmy was a DOLL? What was up with that?

Giles walked back in to the room, gesturing to Buffy urgently as he continued to speak on the cordless phone. Buffy was only too happy to wander over and listen in on Giles’s half of the conversation. Timmy was giving her the wiggins.

“Yes, Spike, I’m quite certain you did nothing whatsoever to deserve incarceration. Just minding your own business. Of course…. Yes, quite.” Giles sighed. “Of course we’ll come and get you… No, I don’t believe we’ll have to plan a ‘cunning jailbreak.’ If your current jailors feel about your presence as I do, they will be only too glad to release you to us…. Yes…. No…. Did I think to record Passions for you?” He glanced at Buffy, who gave him a thumbs up. “Of course I did… No, of course I had no trouble figuring out the VCR. For heaven’s sake, I can READ, can’t I? …Of course we’ll bring a blanket. I have no desire to have my upholstery set on fire. …Yes, fine, we’ll be there shortly.” Giles pressed the disconnect button on his phone, a disgruntled look on his face.

“So, I assume that was our favorite blond punching bag? Guess this means he’s still undusty.”

“Yes, tragically. He is, in fact, in the custody of the police.”

“Ooh, was there brutality?”

“He was not forthcoming with the details of his arrest, but one can always hope.” Giles shrugged into his jacket, patting his pockets until he found his car keys. (He knew where his handkerchiefs were already. All four of them.) “In any case, it is your sacred duty to rescue the police from his no-doubt infuriating shenanigans.”

“Aw, do I have to?” Buffy relented at a look from Giles. “Right. Sacred duty.” She grabbed her backpack. “You know what, Giles? Sacred duty sucks.”

\---

Buffy had to admit, Spike behind bars was an image to be cherished, even with him playing to his audience by lounging on the cot like a porn star. Not that she had ever seen any porn, but she imagined that was what a porn star would look like. Or at least should look like. Sulky and disheveled and anticipatory, like he was just waiting for a naughty policewoman to saunter in with a pair of handcuffs and… She was definitely thinking about this WAY too much. Back to business. Spike, behind bars, good.

Spike acknowledged her presence with a lift of his eyebrows. “Slayer.”

“William.”

The balding detective who had accompanied Buffy and Giles to the holding cell perked up visibly. “William? His name is William? What’s his last name?” He was practically salivating.

The Bloody? Like they’d buy that. “Yeah, Spike here… doesn’t have a last name. Like Madonna, you know?”

The detective stuck his jaw out belligerently. “Actually, Madonna does have a last name. It’s Ciccone.”

“Okay, not like Madonna then.” Man, he was touchy. Must have had a double-dose of Spike. “Like… the Pope?”

“Oi!” Spike was clearly offended. That was good. The detective wasn’t much happier, but Buffy was willing to let him be collateral damage if it made Spike mad.

The Police Chief cleared his throat behind them. Buffy gave Spike one last smirk and turned to listen. “Now, as I said earlier, although we are quite certain that Mr. Spike here is guilty of all manner of crimes, the only thing we are able to be conclusive about is the terrible vandalism perpetrated early this morning in downtown Sunnydale. There are also… extenuating circumstances that make it difficult for us to present his case before the court. First of all, do you know the whereabouts of any of Mr. Spike’s identification documents? Driver’s license, green card, bank statements or utility bills, maybe a… passport?”

Every member of the Sunnydale Police Department in the corridor (which, now that Buffy thought about it, was an awful lot of people, mostly women) seemed to be holding their breath. It was creepy. Being surrounded by non-breathing people made her want to start staking.

“No,” she admitted. “No ID that I know of. There was… a fire. A big fire. Everything burned up, all the papers and the bills and all that stuff. And he lost some of his memory. It was all very… yeah.”

The SPD Collective sighed as one. One of the women seemed to be wiping a tear from her eye, as if this were a profoundly moving tragedy. Buffy could feel Spike’s silent mirth behind her. Laugh it up, future-pile-of-dust. At least I lie better than you.

The Police Chief shook his head. “In that case, I feel we have no choice but to release him to the care of a… family member? Mr. Giles?” He gave Giles a significant look that clearly said he was willing to accept any answer that involved transferring Spike’s custody away from the SPD.

Unfortunately, Spike snorted at this. “Watcher here? He’s no blood of mine.” He grinned cheekily at the detective. “We don’t even have the same accent. Can’t you tell?”

The Police Chief closed his eyes for a brief, pained moment, and then turned to Buffy. “Then obviously it’s you who are the family member.” Giles added his own significant look, and Buffy groaned internally.

“Oh yes, I’m his…” Family? What family could I possibly be? Sister? Cousin? Great-aunt? …What makes an aunt a Great-aunt anyway?... No, focus, Buffy! “I’m his…”

“Wife,” Giles said quickly. “She’s his wife.”

Buffy and Spike (actually, everyone in the hallway except the visibly relieved Police Chief) turned matching horrified looks upon Giles, who felt the sudden urge to clean his glasses so he could better see the very interesting spiderweb in the corner. That was craftsmanship.

“His wife.” The Chief might have had some questions about that, like how she could possibly be his wife if she didn’t know his last name or have any ID for him or a ring or really any documentation at all, but he was a practical man. If he poked holes in her dubious claim, he would never get rid of the troublesome suspect that was turning his station upside down. “Well, Mrs….?”

“It’s MS., actually. Ms. Buffy Summers. I kept my maiden name for… obvious reasons.” She wasn’t sure who deserved death more now, Giles or Spike, but glaring at each of them in turn was giving her a headache, so she focused on smiling sweetly at the very-relieved Chief of Police.

“Ms. Summers. Let’s just head to my office and we can take care of the paperwork.”

\---

Spike sauntered along with them, hands still cuffed, surrounded by an entourage of grim-faced police officers. For some reason, the female officers seemed to be angry at Buffy, glaring daggers into her back. What was up with that?

On the way, Buffy maneuvered he way next to Giles and elbowed him in the ribs. Not with full Slayer strength, but hard enough that he’d be feeling it for days. “Giles, what the hell? Why do I have to be his WIFE?”

Giles would not meet her eyes. “Well, it had to be one of us, and you’re quite obviously not related to him by blood. Once Spike opened his mouth, I really had no choice. In any case,” Giles glanced at her sidelong, “you are the one with the sacred duty. I am merely your guide along the path of righteousness.”

“The path of righteousness? How about the path of things-Giles-wants-done-but-doesn’t-want-to-do-himself? I think that’s the path we’re on at the moment.”

“Well, that too.” He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “better you than me,” but since she wasn’t quite sure, she settled for elbowing him again, aiming for the same spot. Double-bruises were always fun.

“Just one of these days,” Buffy grumbled, “I’d like to go down the path of Buffy-catches-a-break.”

\---

Chief Benson had heard the name of Buffy Summers before. Earlier in the year, before the tragic gang war that had decimated the Sunnydale Class of ’99, destroyed the historic Sunnydale High School, and left Principal Snyder, as well as the mayor, missing in action, Benson’s predecessor had received a report from the beleaguered school principal. While not an official document (Chief Munroe had explained at the time), Snyder’s “List of Graduates You Can Expect to Incarcerate Soon” had proven a valuable tool in monitoring troublemakers among the newly-adult populace. When Munroe had stepped down for “health reasons,” Benson had inherited the lists, and Munroe’s copious notes pertaining thereto.

1999’s list consisted of one name and one name only. Buffy Summers. Underlined twice, with a heavy, emphatic hand. If Snyder could have added neon arrows pointing at her name, he obviously would have.

Benson was not surprised to find out Buffy Summers, Class of ’99, was associated with the most irritating punk he had ever met. (And he had been on the force since 1973. He had met a lot of punks, and they had all been incredibly irritating. Especially in the ‘80s.)

He might not be able to rain down traditional justice upon Mr. Spike, but in memory of Principal Snyder and Mayor Wilkins and Chief Munroe, he would make sure Ms.-not-Mrs. Buffy Summers and Spike-no-last-name-like-the-Pope regretted ever crossing paths with the SPD.

\---

“So,” Buffy smiled at the friendly Police Chief. “What do you need me to sign? Then we can just, you know, get out of your hair. Get back to being productive members of society.” The leather chairs facing the huge cherry-finish desk were extremely comfortable. Spike was left standing near the door – well away from the light from the window, she noted with mixed feelings – surrounded by his armed escort. Now that there was PAPERWORK, and nobody to flirt with, he was obviously bored again. Giles had excused himself to check on his ribs, the traitor.

“Just a few signatures, please.” Benson laid down a thick stack of papers in front of Buffy. Her eyes bugged out. The Chief laughed genially. “Oh, don’t worry, you don’t have to read all of them right now. We’ll send copies home with you. Here, let me just show you where to sign.”

Buffy obediently signed and initialed in highlighted spaces every few pages. “Just a few,” my ass! she grumbled to herself. Finally, they reached the end of the stack. The Police Chief briskly countersigned under each of her signatures, and handed the papers off to his secretary for copies. Buffy stood to shake his hand.

“You can’t imagine what a huge help this is to us, Ms. Summers.” Chief Benson had a firm, almost painful grip. “So, we’ll see you outside the bank, tomorrow at 7?”

Buffy’s polite smile froze. “What?”

The Chief breezed on. “You can’t imagine how helpful it is that you have agreed to supervise and facilitate your husband’s rehabilitation into society, starting with assisting him in the cleanup of last night’s heinous vandalism.”

“What’s that?” Spike was suddenly interested in their conversation.

“And it’s so refreshing, in this day and age, to see a wife willing to take full responsibility – legal and financial – for any crimes or accidental damage her husband might cause in the future. It really gives me confidence that the fine institution of marriage can be saved.” Suddenly the Police Chief’s smile didn’t seem quite so friendly.

“Wait, WHAT?” Buffy pulled her hand away.

“Officers Kemp and Lin would be happy to escort you to the back room, where you will be fitted with the ankle bracelets that will allow you to easily keep tabs on your husband by beeping – loudly – if he ever moves more than 50 feet away from you. That should be an appropriate distance for you to be able to monitor, yes?” The formerly-friendly smile was now unmistakably a malicious grin. “Don’t worry, he won’t be able to remove them. They’re SPECIAL.”

Buffy and Spike were, for once, in complete agreement. “WHAT?!?” they chorused. Their eyes widened in mutual horror as they were briskly escorted from the room.

Chief Benson seated himself in his leather executive chair, and with a grunt of satisfaction poured himself a small glass of Scotch from his bottom-drawer special-occasion stash. He lifted it to the window in a toast to allies gone, but not forgotten.

“To justice.”

He drank his cup of victory down.

 

End Chapter 2.

Coming up next: Explanation

 

Chapter 2 Author’s Notes:

Detective Erikson is sort of named after my brother, who lives in LA and taunts me with his frequent casual meetings with various actors I like, including James Marsters. Michaels and Lin are after Michael and Lynne again, and I’m sure you figured out Chief Benson.

Gratuitous quotes (or near-quotes) from: Ghostbusters, A Christmas Story, Monty Python’s Flying Circus, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Monty Python and the Meaning of Life, and Monty Python’s The Life of Brian. The Tom Hanks movie Thomas talks about is the 80’s RPG-scare cautionary tale Mazes and Monsters.

If you don’t know the theme to “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly” you… actually still probably know the theme to “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly” but just don’t know the name. Go here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E0-DlkLfEiM

At the end of the deportation scene, Spike is whistling “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” from The Life of Brian (recently also used in Spamalot) but Erikson doesn’t recognize it. Go here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WlBiLNN1NhQ


	3. Explanation

It was several more hours before they managed to leave the police station.

The process of being strapped into radio-linked ankle bracelets was over before Buffy and Spike completely comprehended what was going on. Once that was done, however, they still had to check Spike out.

For some strange reason the possessions that had fit in Spike’s pockets when he was booked had swelled until he required a largish cardboard box to carry everything. Sneaking a peek, Buffy saw a sheaf of notes, a few glossy photographs, dot-matrix printouts of essays or stories and… were those panties? They were indeed. She wasn’t sure which would be worse – if he’d had them in his pockets when he had arrived, or if they had been surreptitiously added by Spike’s secret police fanclub. In any case, everything – including the panties – seemed to be inscribed with phone numbers. Too bad Spike doesn’t have a phone, beeyotches.

Then they were accosted at every turn by women – and a few men – wanting Spike’s autograph on prints of his mugshot. Buffy managed to snag one off a desk and had to admit it was an incredibly hot photo; he was smiling at the camera like a lover, eyes promising carnal pleasures unseen in this dimension, hair mussed, cheekbones harsh and stoic, lips soft and kissable. She surreptitiously tucked the photo in a pocket of her wool coat (too warm for California, but really cute) and rolled her eyes as Spike flirted his way down the hall. After the first few fans, she found herself sticking close to his side, rationalizing that their cover story as Devoted Husband and Wife required a little show of jealousy. Fake jealousy, she insisted to herself as she glared down a secretary who seemed likely to get grabby. Besides, it was her Sacred Duty to protect all of these innocent people from Spike and his evil, evil tongue. His incredibly talented, incredibly evil tongue.

Spike was only too happy to delay their departure until sundown, especially since he could feel the Slayer vibrating with pique by his side. (She was always hot, but she was especially hot when she was thoroughly pissed off. Made him want to nibble on her thighs before killing her.) He flirted with everyone (male and female, because for all his faults he was nondiscriminatory. Or indiscriminate. One of the two.), signed “Spike” with brilliant flourishes in the Sharpies that had been released from evidence, and generally basked in the adulation that was his Big Bad due.

Giles met them at the front desk, where Buffy was presented with the promised copies of her Contract with the Devil, neatly clipped and tucked in a manila file folder for her. She bared her teeth in a grin at the secretary (who she knew had actually drafted the contracts, because Police Chiefs didn’t do that sort of thing) and tossed the file into Spike’s box. Giles raised an eyebrow; she muttered, “Later!” sotto voce because she was still embarrassed at how easily the Police Chief had conned her. 

The car ride was reasonably quiet, mostly because Spike was too busy shuffling through his fanmail to complain about Giles’s car, driving ability, and general stuffiness, at least more often than every five minutes. Buffy resolutely did not look back at him during the trip, although she was pretty sure she heard him sniffing now and then, and wondering what was in the box that was worth getting a whiff of made her head hurt.

She was SO going to beat his ass.

\---

Back at Giles’s apartment, Spike cheerfully started the tape in the VCR rewinding, then headed into the kitchen to (presumably) warm up a mug of blood. Buffy reclaimed her paperwork (she had to dig to the bottom of Spike’s box, which made her feel all sorts of icky) and handed it over to Giles, who commenced reading with an air of doomed resignation. After about a paragraph, he set the page down on his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he was in terrible, terrible pain.

“You signed these, Buffy?”

“I, uh…. Yeaaaaah.” Boy, is that ceiling interesting.

“Without reading them?”

“Well, yeah, but just look at them. There was just so much to read. It’s like the first draft of War and Peace. Before he cut out all the wordiness.”

Giles sighed. (His patented Sigh of Deep Disappointment; after three years, Buffy had become expert in interpreting the nuances of Giles’s exhalations.) “But if you’d even read the first page, you might have…” He broke off, either to spare Buffy’s feelings or because the thought of his very own protégé not leaping at the chance to read reams of boring legal documents was too difficult to bear.

“Yeah, but…” Buffy’s voice was small. “He was being really nice?”

Giles opened his mouth as if to say something, then clearly thought better of it, shook his head, and resumed reading.

Spike emerged from the kitchen, sprinkling something into his Steaming Mug of Gross, and jauntily bounced onto the couch, snagging the VCR remote. The Passions opening theme sounded through the room. Buffy couldn’t help herself; she stomped over and whapped him upside the head.

“Oi! Don’t hit the hair! What was that for, Slayer?” Spike glared up at her, face a perfect vision of wounded innocence as he smoothed his hair back into place.

“What was that FOR? Hours at the police station, watching uniformed bimbos drool over you, and now I have to help you clean up a stupid mess YOU made!”

“And any messes he might make in the future,” Giles interjected, turning a page.

“Really?” Giles nodded absently. “Oh, that is just GREAT! Plus, PLUS, look at this stupid ankle bracelet!” Buffy stuck her foot up on the back of the couch, pulling the hem of her green leather pants up a few inches to reveal the clunky cuff.

“Don’t exactly need to look, got one of m’ own,” Spike snarked, but eyed her leather-clad leg with interest, eyes traveling from her ankle upwards.

Buffy ranted on. “I won’t be able to wear skirts unless I wear boots that cover this thing up!”

“Boots?” Spike glanced up at Buffy’s face, then back at her thigh. His voice dropped sinfully low. “What kind o’ boots are we talking here? Combat boots? Or thigh-high leather? Maybe laced up to here?” He trailed a finger across the inseam of her pants, about eight inches up from her knee. “Or here?” He repeated the motion, a few inches higher, lingering. “Or…”

Buffy yanked her foot off the back of the couch, face red. With anger, she assured herself. “Don’t you change the subject, Mister Can’t-Break-Out-Of-a-Jail-Cell-On-My-Own.”

“Hey, that cell was SPECIAL!”

“What, you got emotionally attached while you were in there? Didn’t want to hurt its precious feelings?”

Eyes murderous, Spike opened his mouth to retort, but was suddenly distracted by something on the TV. “Oh, bleedin’ hell. Now I missed what happened to Timmy.” He picked up the remote again and pressed ‘rewind.’

“Oh right, because the trials and tribulations of a stupid fictional DOLL are more important than the actual, real-life misery caused by your stupid vandalism and your stupid playing-games-with-the-police and your stupid… Your stupid peroxided hair!”

“Well, yeah.” Spike’s voice was matter-of-fact as he scanned the rewinding images for the end of the opening credits. “And what exactly did my hair do to you?”

Giles cleared his throat. “Buffy, if you’re not too busy taunting the helpless-but-annoying, might I have a word?”

Buffy whapped Spike again for good measure and returned to the desk, pulling up a stool. Giles was squaring the stack of paper with a finicky air that boded poorly for her future. “So, what did I get myself into?”

“Unfortunately, a very sticky situation. First of all, you agreed to supervise Spike in his repair of the damage caused by his night of drunken vandalism.”

“So, what, paint over some graffiti?”

“The list of damage here is quite substantial. I shouldn’t be surprised if it took more than a week, even with the schedule they have written up for you.”

“It does say ‘supervise,’ though? So I can make him do all the work?” Maybe she could get a whip. Make him sing coal-miner songs.

“Yes, that’s a small relief. Let me come back to the schedule in a moment, though. You have also agreed to clean, remove, or repair any future vandalism damage linked to Spike, in addition to paying significant punitive damages to both the City of Sunnydale, and the owners of the damaged property, in the event of recidivism.”

“How significant?” Buffy stood up, feeling the urge to punch something. “Something” continued to watch his soap, pretending to ignore the conversation behind him.

Giles gave her a serious look. “Significant enough to severely curtail your trips to the mall, and possibly require you to seek part-time employment, since I expect your mother will be less-than-pleased with the financial responsibility.”

Buffy cracked her knuckles. “Okay. Good to know. Is that it?”

“No, unfortunately. You have also agreed, in writing, with initials at every important point, to accept full legal responsibility, not only for Spike’s vandalism, but for any other crime they are able to link to him from this point forward. This includes, of course, murder – which he is not currently capable of, but might become again – but also shoplifting, noise complaints, public intoxication, extortion, and really any other civil offense, misdemeanor, or felony Spike is capable of committing. Which I can imagine is quite a lot.”

“Oh God.” Buffy ran through a quick mental list of Spike’s crimes. It ended up not being quick at all, because the list was too long. And that was just the crimes she herself knew about. “Oh God.”

“From what I can gather, they are unable to actually prosecute Spike for his many offenses, because in the eyes of the law, he does not exist. You, however, DO exist, and they are determined to hold you responsible in his place.”

Buffy glared at Spike’s back. That had better not be a snicker she had heard, or she would stake him then and there. “PLEASE tell me there is a way out of this.”

“I’ll look into your legal options, of course, but at the moment there is a more urgent concern. You did note the requirements for the cleanup of Main Street, I presume?”

“He said something about seven tomorrow. In the morning, right?” Buffy sank back onto her stool. “Oh, God, how early do I have to wake up now? I barely get any sleep as it is! I’m gonna have bags under my eyes! Not even cute Gucci bags, big ol’ Samsonite suitcases! My face is going to be the luggage department of Sears!”

Giles closed his eyes briefly. “Yes, of course, but is that really the only problem you see with this arrangement?”

“Well, I’m going to have trouble getting to class on time…”

“I mean specifically the meeting at 7 am, in front of the bank.”

Buffy looked at him expectantly.

“Outside.”

“…Yes?”

“After sunrise.”

“Uh-huh?”

Dear Lord, it’s like pulling teeth. Giles gestured at Spike, sprawled comfortably on the couch, remote control in hand. “With a VAMPIRE.”

“Oh. Ohhhhh!”

Spike shrugged, not even turning. “Slayer could always do the cleanup herself.”

Buffy glared at him venomously. “Or we could just let you burn up in the middle of Main Street. We could toast marshmallows. Make Spike S’mores.”

“Yeah, in which case you’d still have to do the cleanup yourself.” Spike smirked over his shoulder, keeping one eye on the TV screen.

Buffy wanted to hit him with another snappy comeback, but her brain had wandered off on the Spike S’mores tangent, and the question of cracker/marshmallow/Spike/chocolate/cracker versus cracker/marshmallow/chocolate/Spike/cracker was taking up all her cognitive space. For some reason, cracker/Spike/marshmallow/chocolate/cracker wasn’t in the running… Oh wait, it was because it would be a crime not to have Spike adjacent to the chocolate.... Oooh! You could break tradition and go cracker/chocolate/marshmallow/chocolate/Spike/chocolate/cracker… Oh dear God what is WRONG with me? Buffy quickly revised her mental images to include Extremely Toasty Spike instead of Extremely Tasty Spike. That was better.

Giles had apparently been talking for a little while, but since the first few phrases out of his mouth were inevitably some pointless British jibber-jabber, she figured she hadn’t missed much.

“…I’m sure we can find a solution that will allow Spike to perform his civic duty without going up in flames.”

“How about we call up the Scoobies? We haven’t had an urgent Scooby meeting for at least 36 hours, we’re about due.” Also, there are still cookies here, and if I don’t get other people to eat them, pretty soon I’m not going to fit into these very expensive, very butt-flattering pants.

We are NEVER letting Willow near the Oven of Remorse again.

\---

Spike was less-than-enthused about the impending invasion of imbeciles, but he did have to admit that watching Buffy pace nervously around Giles’s foyer, debating with Giles how best to present the situation to the bloody Scoobies, was a sight to behold. Those pants hugged her sweet ass in just the right way. He added the green leather pants to his mental list, Things Buffy Should Wear When I Kill Her. Right after the laced thigh-high leather boots he desperately hoped she actually owned. (The list started off with “No Underwear” and had dozens of entries. He had had a lot of time to think about it lately.)

While Giles was occupied, he helped himself to the premium Scotch Giles kept in a crystal decanter, which was excellent. (He put it in the ‘Kiss the Librarian’ mug so that if Giles glanced over he’d think it was just blood. It was a crime, that, because truly fine liquor deserved a truly fine glass, but it did prevent pointless argument, freeing Spike to focus on the more important task of harassing the Slayer.) While he was at it he smuggled some of the hoochier stuff over to the couch, slid it between the couch cushions and the arm of the couch, where he could drape his duster over it and yet have easy access. A Scourge of Scoobies required Litres of Liquor.

As a matter of fact, the Scoobies were so bleedin’ predictable and irritating, he might as well make a game of it. He could drink every time Buffy acted like a bitch. Or every time she showed off her perfect, biteable ass. Or any other perfect parts. (He paused in his thoughts to admire a few of said parts, and took a drink.)

Giles was such a collection of habits and quirks, if Spike used all of them he’d be unconscious before the meeting was half over. (Which had a certain appeal, but he still didn’t entirely trust some of the twats not to stake him in his sleep.) After some thought, he decided on the twin pillars of sarcasm (two drinks if it went over the Scoobies’ heads) and drinking. (Which he did almost as much as Spike. For an unemployed man, he certainly didn’t skimp on his liquor budget.)

The witch was easy. Drink any time she offered to cast a spell. Also any time she got weepy over Dog-Boy. That should get a good buzz going.

He would drink every time Xander opened his mouth, because he wanted to drink every time Xander opened his mouth.

Demon Girl was another interesting one. Hidden depths, that girl, and each and every one of those hidden depths filled to the brim with thoughts of sex. (Sex with Xander, which was too revolting for Spike to even imagine, but he was on board with the sex part as a general rule.) So obviously any mention of sex, with double drinks if it made her pathetic boyfriend freak out. Also if she mentioned her recent humanity, or her days as a vengeance demon.

The doorbell rang. Spike settled more comfortably on the couch. This was going to be fun.

\---

Over pizza (and cookies), Giles and Buffy explained her predicament to the gathering.

“So, you have to watch over Spike? Make him into a fine, upstanding member of society?” Willow was sympathetic. “Hey, I could cast a spell! Make him all compliant!”

Spike took a drink.

“No thanks, Will,” Buffy hastened to reply. “I think it might be best to avoid shortcuts. Think of all the things that could go wrong.” She gave Willow a significant look.

“Oh, like you making out with Spike twenty-four-seven. But you said…”

“That it was disgusting and revolting and never to be repeated, RIGHT?” Buffy kicked Willow under the table. Spike glared at her and took a drink.

“Yes, let’s by all means avoid that. I couldn’t even see and I wanted to wash my eyes out with bleach.” Giles took a sip of Scotch. Spike took two drinks.

“So, what’s to keep the Evil Undead from just going walkabout?” Xander turned to Giles. “That’s something English people do, right? Like putting shrimp on the Barbie?” Spike took a drink.

“Yes, we all do that, right before we head out to the Outback and hunt kangaroos and wallabies with our boomerangs and celebrate with a rousing concert of didgeridoos,” Giles replied to Xander. “That’s Australia, you berk. And also a bloody ridiculous stereotype.” That finished off Spike’s mug of the good stuff; he surreptitiously refilled from his sofa stash, not without a longing glass at the crystal decanter.

“He’s wearing an ankle bracelet,” Buffy explained. “It beeps if he gets more than fifty feet away from me.”

“Aw, Spike’s chained to the doghouse now? Poor puppy!” Xander pouted in Spike’s direction. Spike rolled his eyes and took a drink.

“Xander, that would be SO much funnier if I weren’t also wearing a fine piece of non-ankle-flattering jewelry.” Buffy stuck out her leg, exposing the cuff.

“Aw, man, sorry Buffster.” Spike took a drink as they all leaned over to regard the blinking hardware.

“Can’t you break it off?” Anya suggested. “It doesn’t look that sturdy.”

“I tried,” Buffy admitted with a pout. “It’s reinforced in some way. Maybe even magic. I can’t get it to budge. I’m kinda surprised, because it didn’t seem like anyone at the police department realized what Spike was, or has even the slightest clue about the supernatural. Nope, this thing is on to stay.” She bent down and poked at it. Eyes fixed on her exposed cleavage, conveniently aimed right in his direction, Spike took a long, slow drink, and twitched the edge of his duster over his crotch. As she continued to fiddle with the ankle bracelet, occasionally revealing a glimpse of perky nipple, he wondered in a tipsy red haze if anyone would notice if he brought himself off right there. Or if he cared if they noticed.

He would never know, because his fantasy of the Slayer bending down in all sorts of interesting ways over all sorts of interesting things was interrupted by Xander’s obnoxious voice. That killed the mood rather effectively. At least he got to take a drink.

“So not only can he not get more than fifty feet away from you, you also can’t get more than fifty feet away from him? That’s unfair!” Xander was comically distressed.

“Your grasp of the obvious is commendable,” Giles muttered. Spike took a drink.

“Tell me about it.” Buffy glared at Spike, who was sulking in her general direction with heavy-lidded eyes. “As if I already didn’t have a life, now I have to plan my lack-of-life around the freakin’ unliving. It sucks.” Spike decided that was either bitchy or hot enough for another drink.

“Omigod, where are you going to sleep?” Willow flapped her hands in agitation.

“Sleep?”

“Well, we aren’t allowed to have boys in the dorm room overnight. Also, I’m… not too keen on sharing living space with someone who tried to kill me there just a few weeks ago. No offense,” she said to Spike sincerely.

“None taken,” he replied, looking secretly pleased. “You can always stay here, Slayer. Share my bathtub and chains.”

Now that called up interesting images in Buffy’s mind. Involving bubble bath. But not much sleeping. Focus, Buffy!

Giles sighed. “Spike, this is my flat, and I will take care of the invitations. Buffy, if you wish you may stay in my spare room. As Spike is already, regrettably, settled in here, that would undoubtedly be easiest for the moment.”

“What, Slayer gets a comfy bed with silk sheets, and I get the bleedin’ bathtub and tied to chairs? What next, the Iron Maiden?”

“What you fail to take into account, Spike, is that I actually LIKE Buffy.” Giles took a drink, mirrored by Spike. “Also, I don’t have silk sheets. They are, however, Egyptian cotton.”

“Oh, very posh.” That was too bad; Spike rather liked the image of the Slayer sliding around on silk sheets. Red would be good. He looked good in red.

“Don’t worry, Spike. Now that I’m quite confident that you won’t be killing us in our sleep, and measures are in place to prevent your escape, I would be willing to allow you to… sleep on the couch.” Giles twisted his face in disgusted resignation.

“Does that mean you won’t be using the chains?” Anya said brightly. “Because Xander and I already picked out a safe word, and…”

“SO!” Xander interrupted. Spike took three drinks. “Now that we’ve worked out the sleeping arrangements, what else do we need to know, Buffinator?”

“I’m still still a little fuzzy on some of the details,” Willow said, lips quirking. “If they don’t know anything about vampires or the supernatural or slayers, how did you get them to release Spike to you?”

Spike leered at Buffy. Buffy glared at Giles. Giles stared at the ceiling.

“….Okay, sensing some awkwardness here.” Willow smiled reassuringly. “Do we need to break out the ‘I’ statements?”

Finally, Giles sighed. “We told them Buffy was his wife.”

“Oh, congratulations!” Anya beamed.

“His wife?” Xander sat down abruptly next to Anya. Spike took a drink. “Willow, you didn’t…”

“No! No, I swear. No spells.” Willow’s eyes were huge.

“Not his real wife,” Buffy hastened to clarify. “We totally lied to them. But that’s what the police think, and I guess they have to keep thinking it if I want to stay out of jail.”

Xander’s face was a mix of shock and revulsion. “Can I just say, EW?” Spike took a drink.

“If you’re pretend-married, are we socially required to buy you a gift? I gather that a fondue pot is traditional. Or perhaps a toaster.” Anya snuggled up to Xander. “Now that I’m a girlfriend, I’m excited to join in the tradition of couples gift-giving, where we get to give one gift, and sign a card from both of us. Which is not only romantic, but also costs half as much, so that’s a big win right there.” Spike took a drink.

“I’m pretty sure we can pass on the toaster,” Buffy said wryly. Anya looked disappointed.

“If you really want to give a gift, cash would be LOVELY.” Spike’s voice was very slightly slurred.

“Oh, good!” Anya poked Xander playfully. “Honey, you’ll have to help me pick out a good card. Doing it together makes it more meaningful.” He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. Spike pondered for a moment, shrugged, and took a drink.

“Does Hallmark have a line of Condolences-On-Your-Fake-Marriage-To-Your-Mortal-Enemy greetings? Perhaps Have-A-Dusty-Day?” Buffy quipped.

“Mmmm.” Giles lifted his glass in an ironic toast. “When you care enough to send the very best.” Spike lifted his glass as well, then drank twice.

“So,” Willow said nervously. “I think we’ve got all the backstory. I just don’t think I’m clear on, you know, why we’re having a meeting about it. I mean, it’s all very… interesting, but it is a hoppin’ Tuesday night and I think I have some, you know, moping to do. And homework. Okay, not the homework, because I finished that right after class, but, you know, the moping. With the country music.” Spike took a drink.

“Yes, well,” Giles began. “As I’m certain we mentioned, Buffy is required to supervise Spike’s cleanup of Main Street, beginning tomorrow at 7 in the morning.”

Willow nodded in instant comprehension. “I can see how that would be a problem, with Spike being a vampire and all.” Giles studiously did not look at Buffy, who pouted a bit.

“And since Buffy has unfortunately agreed to this early-morning work schedule, it behooves us to find a way to ensure that Spike can, er, work.”

“So, we need to find a way to protect Spike from the sun.” Willow looked pensive. “Main Street doesn’t have very reliable shade patterns, so I doubt we can make a workable schedule utilizing those… Ooooh, I read about this GREAT spell!”

“NO!” Spike, Giles, Buffy, and Xander all shouted in unison.

Glaring at Xander, Spike took two drinks. “Sorry, Red, I’m not trusting my lily-white skin to magic.”

Xander glared back. “Yeah, I’d be okay with the Spike-burning-up part. It’s the, you know, random demon attacks, blindness, and… disturbing new relationships that I’d be worried about. Like, what if next time I ended up kissing… Ew.” Spike took a drink.

“Ew,” Buffy and Willow agreed, for very different reasons.

Anya looked thoughtful. “Actually, I think that sight might be fairly sexually arousing. I mean, Xander’s my honey, and Spike…”

“DEFINITELY not!” Spike interrupted, taking a drink. Another, after noting Xander’s slack-jawed expression.

“Okay, so if not a spell…” Willow turned to Xander, who was still trying to process Anya’s last statement. “Do you think your carpentry skills are up to building a sunshade? Maybe one we could, you know, move as the sun moved?”

“Carpentry skills?” Xander managed, now looking a little sick. “I don’t have carpentry skills. My temp construction job was all about digging holes, and now I’m back to delivering pizzas.” Spike took a drink, smirking.

Anya snuggled in again. “I think you’re sexy, even when you smell like anchovies.” Xander hugged her back, clinging to comfort in a turvy-topsy world. Spike decided the anchovies (and the Xander) cancelled out the ‘sexy.’ No drink.

“The idea of a temporary shelter does seem useful,” Giles mused. “It would have to be something that could be easily moved, and provide a deep enough shade.”

“Hey, what about those plastic popup tents? Like they use at craft fairs?” Buffy interjected. “No carpentry involved!”

“The vinyl on those might be a trifle thin,” Giles said doubtfully.

“We could put some extra tarps on the inside! Duct tape ‘em so, you know, random gust of wind doesn’t undo all our hard work.” Willow was grinning, a good problem solved being nearly as fun as a good thorough mope.

“So, what, camping section of S-Mart, right?” Buffy picked up a cold slice of pizza, regarding it pensively. “They sell folding chairs there too, right? ‘Cause I just need to supervise the forced labor, and I’m kinda beat.” She nibbled at a piece of pepperoni. Watching her tongue, Spike took a drink. “Wonder if they sell whips.” Spike choked on his Scotch. Yes, please.

“Buffy,” Willow said seriously. “Slavery is not funny.”

“No, of course not,” Buffy wryly replied. “Just, you know, Spike. That makes it a little funny, right?” Definitely bitchy. Drink.

Giles looked up from the shopping list he had quickly drafted. “Buffy, I realize this has been a difficult day, and you have an early morning tomorrow, but I do think it would be unwise to skip patrol tonight.”

Buffy perked up at this. “Killing things would be good. Plus, maybe I can find our compadres in camo, get them to take out Spike’s chip so I can kill him with impunity. I’m all about the impunity.” She cheerily started to load up with weapons.

“Oh, sure,” Spike muttered, taking a drink. “Rub it in that the bleedin’ Lady of the Manor can kill things and poor old Spike can’t.”

Buffy rolled her eyes, weighing a stake in her hand. “That’s what you got out of that statement? Not my intent to kill YOU?”

Spike grinned evilly. “Heard the bit about getting the chip out first. With the chip out, I think you’ll find killing Spike not quite the walk in the park you expect. Might have something of a fight on your hands.” He shrugged. “I go like that, least I get one last taste o’ violence.” He cast her a sidelong look. “Or maybe a taste o’ you.” He took a drink.

“Yeah, I know. My neck your chalice, all that jazz.” Buffy rummaged in Giles’s weapon chest. “Got an axe in here, Giles?” Spike growled something about heading back to the police station for some bleeding respect, but Buffy ignored him. He took a drink. Then, eyeing her ass as the bent over the chest, another.

“I think the axe is, er, in the umbrella stand.” Giles was watching her with narrowed eyes.

“Yep, there it is.” Buffy gave the axe an experimental swing, then turned to face the group. “So, Xander and Anya, you okay with picking up the supplies from S-Mart?”

Xander nodded, his psyche somewhat recovered. “Sure thing, Buff. Shop smart, shop…”

Buffy interrupted him. Spike took a drink. “And Giles, you and Willow willing to do research for a couple of hours? At least until I get back from patrol? Figure out how to get me out of this mess, either legally or magically.”

“You can count on us!” Willow chirped. Giles poured himself more Scotch.

“Okay then. Spike, can you just… not break any laws? For the next few hours?”

Spike waved a hand negligently, quaffing the rest of his drink.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Guys, thank you so much for helping me out here.” Buffy made one more check of her weapons (noting with alarm that she had to cut back one on waistband-stakes – no more cookies!) and stomped out the door to deliver a cathartic beatdown on the creatures of the night.

Giles closed his eyes in weary anticipation. I knew she would forget…

A few seconds later, the apartment was filled with a horrendous, ear-splitting BEEP! …BEEP! …BEEP! Xander jumped, Willow let out a little shriek, and Anya scanned the ceiling with a puzzled look on her face. Spike cursed under his breath, glaring at his own ankle in disgust. Giles took another disgruntled sip of Scotch. Spike switched his disgusted glare to his empty mug.

The beeping abruptly stopped.

Buffy shoved open the door, stomped in, grabbed Spike by the arm, and stomped back out, dragging Spike along with her. The door slammed. There was a long moment of silence. Sweet, blessed silence.

“Well then,” Giles said finally, tossing back the remains of his drink. “Let’s get down to work, shall we?”

 

End Chapter 3.

Coming up next: Escalation

 

Chapter 3 Author’s Notes:

I think I got all the drinks right. If you think I missed one, please let me know.

Gratuitous quotes (or near-quotes) from: Saturday Night Fever, Bruce Campbell VS. Army of Darkness


	4. Escalation

Buffy stalked down the street towards the nearest cemetery, firmly grasping the wrist of Spike’s duster to make sure he didn’t get distracted (or decide to be an asshole) and fall behind and set the cuffs off again.

Spike toddled cheerily along behind her, in a pleasant haze of fine (and not-so-fine) liquor. He was very nicely plastered indeed. He felt… liquorish. Like he was made of Scotch, sloshing merrily along in his Docs. Of course that wasn’t what the word actually meant, he knew that from his time at Cambridge, the word was an archaic form of lickerish, and that in turn was an archaic form of lecherous, with the additional sense of greedy, or desirous, and he was that as well; he’d always secretly liked the word lickerish even in his mawkish university days because of that, feeling secretly wicked in the library thinking about all the licking the licker who was lickerish had to do, and just look at him now, as a bleedin’ Master Vampire he was a lecherous lickerish liquorish bloke who, he was proud to say, had a gift for the licking, he had. Also, in his black leather and black jeans and black boots and black shirt, he probably looked just like a big stick of licorice. Licorice-ish. He was lecherous lickerish liquorish licorice. The red button-down could be a swath of Red Vines over his nummy licorice self. Mmmm.

He pulled back a bit, getting Buffy to turn and look at him. “D’y’like licorice, luv?”

She stopped in her tracks and looked him up and down, eyes narrow like blades. “Are you DRUNK?”

He drew himself up proudly. “Thoroughly sloshed, Shlayer.”

Buffy screwed her eyes shut and made an inarticulate, garbled growl of exasperation. Spike’s fertile liquorish brain, feeling all thesaurus-ish (except was there a thesaurus for growls? Well any route he was a connoisseur of growls, a bleedin’ pro, and he could be his own thesaurus) called up dozens of things he could do to the Slayer to make her growl just like that again, except now she was dragging him along muttering under her breath something that sounded like “razzlefrazzle stupid alcoholic vampire” and he resented that, he did, because he knew he wasn’t an alcoholic because he had never been to a meeting in his unlife.

They continued on their way, and as he wafted along behind her, floating on the pleasant fumes of Scotch still soaking into his system, he started to compose a poem:

She makes me feel so liquorish

I’m flying high like Icarus

I wonder if she’s ticklish

Her arse makes me all feverish

This poem is all gibberish…

It was rubbish of course, like all his poems were, but he did very much like the Icarus image, there was a painting he’d seen once, when he and Dru had been living the high life in Brussels, a Bruegel? someone like that, landscape and ocean painted deep and lush and then back in the corner just shy of the shore a little flicker of wings and feet, barely a brushstroke each, that was supposed to be Icarus falling out of the sky to his doom, and Dru had laughed and pointed with a queer feverish light in her eyes and said “that’s you, my prince, if you fly too close to the sun!” and he had laughed with her and swung her around and they had found some tasty tourists to nosh on in a corridor of the museum, and then later in New York they had come to taste the tail end of the Beat Generation though most of them were in San Francisco by then and they’d attended a salon or a soiree or whatever the fuck they were calling literary gatherings in those days and there’d been an old poet, coming to his own end along with the beatniks, Spike could hear the heart attacks and strokes marching along in his veins like Spartans, and he’d read a poem about the painting and this time Dru had pouted and been stern and warned him not to fly too close to the sun, which of course he wasn’t going to do he assured her with kisses and licks good liquorish licks like he could fly anyways and they had shared a young wannabe beatnik in a beret this was before berets were all ironic and it was just as well she wasn’t going to make it to being a wannabe hippie, and the point of it all was Icarus was a damn fine image for a poem and he didn’t give a rat’s arse if it really rhymed, and it made sense too because Buffy’s hair bouncing before him wafting shampoo scent into his face was just like the sun, and her hot tight bottom in those green pants and the growls and the bending over all the things and BUGGER now he’d forgotten the whole sodding poem.

He would have to start over.

GOD he loved Scotch.

\---

Buffy really needed to kill something RIGHT NOW because if there was anything guaranteed to drive her crazier than having to stay close to Spike at all times, it was having to stay close to Spike when he was drunk off his ass.

He had been muttering to himself as she dragged him along, and she really didn’t want to know what he was saying because every time she glanced behind he was eyeing her butt, and while she knew it looked damn good (even after all the cookies) she was pretty sure he was eyeing her more as an entrée which was just all kinds of gross. Plus she was pretty sure he had said something about licking, and that made her think of all the interesting places one might want to lick and WHY HAD SHE NOT FOUND ANYTHING TO KILL YET?!?

But eventually they made it to the cemetery, and in the woods she came across some slime she was pretty sure belonged to another of the slug demons she’d been rooting out the night before. She stopped Spike with a hand on his chest, and he smiled and leaned into her hand a bit, humming faintly. Ooo, she thought in surprise. Pecs. Then she caught a whiff of the vapors surrounding his mouth.

“Ugh. Spike, you are just disgustingly drunk. Can you stay right here and just… out of my way?”

“Stay right here. Right. Right-o.” Spike grinned. She had to admit, at least he was in a good mood, even if he stank of that gross stuff that he and Giles inexplicably thought was delicious, and apparently his good mood made him very agreeable and cooperative. But stealthy he definitely was not, and the slug demons had awfully good hearing for not having ears.

She tracked the slime to a little thicket not too far away, and prepared her sneak attack. She was almost close enough to launch, when she froze. How far was she from Spike?

She looked back at him. He was leaning against a tree, in what might have been a dapper GQ pose if he hadn’t given the clear impression that the tree was the only thing keeping him upright. Was he forty feet away? Or forty-five? How far was fifty feet anyhow?

Goddammit, she didn’t have time to break out the tape measure. She just had to hope. She was the Chosen One, right? Luck had to be on her side.

She took another step.

BEEP! …BEEP! …BEEP! went the anklets in unison, seeming even louder out here in the still woods, and Spike fell over, and a slug demon exploded out of the thicket in front of her, sliming all over her green leather pants.

She started swinging Giles’s axe, ears ringing from the constant beeping. “SPIKE!” she yelled as she slashed. “Get your ass over here!”

“Right-o!” he replied cheerfully, rolling to his feet with loose grace and staggering jauntily in her direction. The beeping stopped, and she put all her attention on the slug demon. A few more good whacks with the axe, and it sank to the ground, beginning to dissolve into the grass. Ew, fertilizer.

She surveyed herself in disgruntled resignation. Slug demons were always gross, and this one had slimed her but good. Spike finished his swaggering promenade and gave her a good look up and down. He shrugged. “Could lick it off.”

“Lick it… EW! Spike, that is disgusting!”

“Well yeah, doubt it’s bleedin’ nectar. Just an idea. Feeling lickerish.” His incredibly evil tongue was just peeking out of his mouth and he was looking hungrily at some parts of her that she was quite sure had been missed in the slimeplosion. Oh, dear God. She hastily blustered at him.

“Feeling licorice? What is with you and the candy tonight? Is that some new British slang? …Don’t answer that, I really don’t want to know what it really means.” She stomped away from him, making sure she heard his footsteps behind her before she got too far because GOD that beeping was atrocious.

Killing the slug demon had barely taken the edge off her frustration, so she found a hose behind one of the mausoleums and started to spray down her clothes so she could get back with the killing pronto. The weather had been pretty balmy, even for a California December, but at night the cold water was COLD, and she was shivering before she even finished with her pants. (She noted in disgust that the ankle bracelet seemed waterproof, smugly blinking away even when she turned the spray directly on it.) She didn’t care, because wet and cold was still miles better than slimy. She slipped off her coat to clean it – it wasn’t too bad, the wool was good quality and repelled both the slime and the water nicely – but a good blob of mucus had gone straight down the back of her shirt, so she awkwardly directed the spray right down her spine.

Spike watched her in amiable, tipsy interest, humming something she obviously didn’t recognize because she liked good music and he liked stupid punk music because she was good and he was stupid and a punk. After a bit, she craned her neck to try and look down her back. “Spike, did I get it all?” she finally asked.

“Still got a bit there.” He pointed.

“Where?” She sprayed, twisting to see where the water landed. “There?”

“Nah, lower. Got some in your hair too.”

“My hair!” Buffy lifted a hand and, sure enough, there was slime. She could feel her lower lip starting to tremble, and pressed it into a scowl. Spike ambled towards her.

“Here, let me, luv.” He took the hose from her hand, stepping behind her, and after a perfunctory spray at her lower back, started to rinse out her hair. “Tip your head back, there’s a girl.” He started to work the spray back from her hairline, and Buffy closed her eyes. He had obviously washed a girl’s hair with a garden hose behind a mausoleum before, and though there was a momentary flash of disgust knowing it was obviously crazy-ass Drusilla he’d done it for, it was nice having her hair rinsed with strong fingers combing the slime out even though the spray was colder and harsher than at the hair salon. And even though Spike was still probably drunk he wasn’t getting any water in her eyes, which she would if she tried to do it herself, so whatever. It was in keeping with the way her day was going that she end up behind a mausoleum with a drunken neutered vampire beautician finger-combing slime out of her hair.

Yeah, that was her life in a nutshell right there. 

\---

Spike was not entirely sure what was going on, but his muddled mind had narrowed it down to two options.

One, he was having an erotic dream, in which case any second now the Slayer was going to turn under the spray of water, rub her (braless!) hard wet nipples against him, lick him all over, fuck him like an animal for ten or twenty hours, and then offer her neck up for the kill (which he would be able to do because he wouldn’t have a chip in his dream) except maybe he’d hold off on the killing until he’d had a bit more of the fucking, because DAMN the Slayer was hot when she was soaking wet. There could be wardrobe changes, and boots, and perhaps those chains. Any second now, this was going to happen. Any second now.

Two (because he hadn’t unlived more than a hundred years without having something of a grasp on reality), the Slayer was letting him play Lady’s Maid because she found him slightly less revolting than slug slime and significantly less threatening than your average eunuch, and after flaunting her (braless!) wet body and getting poor Spike all worked up, she was going to sashay off and kill things and Spike wouldn’t be able to play at all, except with himself.

He really, really wanted it to be Option One. But even drunk as he was, he found it a trifle unlikely.

Still, didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the view, Slayer’s head tipped back, neck exposed, perky (braless!) breasts standing to attention under her sopping wet shirt, all bathed in moonlight. If he shifted his head just right, he could see the pulse in her neck beating, with a delightful frame of nipples and a wet slash of honey hair, and he knew this, THIS was exactly the angle he wanted when he finally got the chip out and could feast. This, and about ten other angles. No, wait, twenty. Maybe more. But he would start here, fill his hands with her perfect breasts and get her all worked up just like he was now, until she was begging him to devour her.

Cheerfully in the grip of this pleasant fantasy, he rinsed and combed slime out of her hair and hummed the song that had been stuck in his head since the Slug Slime incident, eyes riveted to that compelling thrumming artery. It was hypnotic, that heartbeat, and he started wondering if Buffy would notice if he just… licked it a little. Just a taste, just the barest taste, just so he could feel the pumping blood under his tongue, to tide him over until he could get the real thing. He was pretty sure she’d notice, actually, because as he was picturing it now, long lascivious (liquorish!) strokes of his tongue, she damn well better notice, but the next question was, would she let him off without a staking? And if so, how much licking could he get away with before reaching the critical staking threshold? (Because he had all sorts of ideas for other bits of her that likely needed seeing to.) But he guessed the answer to that didn’t matter; the little red devil of Scotch on his one shoulder and the little red devil of Lust on his other (he had no shoulder angel, of course, because he was evil) were both gleefully urging him on and he leaned in with heady anticipation…

Which was of course the very moment a pair of funeral-suited vampires walked around the corner. Well, bugger. “Incoming, Slayer.” He turned the spray of the hose on the vampires while she quickly assessed the situation and sprang into action.

Spike watched the beautiful (braless!) Slayer in her ballet of violence; she swiftly turned one of the vampires into dust that coated her wet body as if she’d been rolling in mud, or maybe wrestling, and she was gloriously dirty, and that was the final straw for Spike. A few hard strokes through his jeans was all it took to finish him off, rock him into a hard sharp orgasm that made his toes curl, and then he was watching the Slayer through delicious afterglow as she finished off the second vamp and sank into a ‘ready’ stance, scanning the bushes for further danger. When the coast seemed clear, she relaxed and ruefully regarded her dust-caked body, then glanced over at Spike, who had just enough presence of mind to look casual and pretend he hadn’t just stroked off to the sight of a dirty, dirty Slayer.

“Hose me down again?” she said wryly.

“Of course, luv,” Spike purred.

\---

Clean at last, Buffy donned her coat and resumed patrol, hoping for a few more kills before the discomfort of her wet clothes became too much for her. Spike’s good mood seemed to have expanded; he strolled along with a beatific smile on his face, singing a bit. It was incredibly disturbing, like in the way clowns were supposedly really funny but you just knew that underneath they were all serial killers so while they were making you a balloon hat you kept anticipating the moment that they would reach into their floppy shoes and pull out a machete. (Most people couldn’t hide a machete in their shoes, but clown shoes were really big, plus they did that thing with all the clowns in the tiny car, which everyone knew was some sort of dimensional rift or something, so who knew how many weapons they could fit into those things? Not to mention the big floppy polka-dot bloomers and the huge creepy wigs.)

Not that Spike’s clothes were baggy, he seemed to like his jeans and t-shirts tight enough to show off but loose enough to move in – though now that he was all wet they were clinging to him like spandex except without the weird Richard Simmons vibe that actual spandex summoned up. (She wondered briefly why he’d sprayed himself down too when she was the one who had gotten slimed, but whatever, he was a weird, weird vampire, and unlike creepy clowns he had very pretty abs, as outlined by wet black t-shirt. Maybe when they grafted his kissing onto a decent human being to make Buffy’s Perfect Man they could take the abs along as a bonus.)

It was the singing that was really wigging her out. (Well, the singing, and the fact that he had that smug cat-that-ate-the-canary look on his face when she knew he hadn’t eaten a darn thing.) He was still a little slurred by alcohol, and wasn’t putting much effort into projection, but she kept hearing snippets of lyrics, and for the life of her she couldn’t figure out what the hell it was about. Something about walking in the woods, and then maybe a bit about someone having to go, and then a plaintive “Why is it always this way?” And then he kept repeating something like “Essel Eugene” over and over, and she just couldn’t figure it out.

Finally, she gave in to curiosity. “What the hell is that you keep singing? Who’s Eugene?”

“No Eugene, pet. It’s spelling. S-L-U-G.” He said it slowly, curling his tongue lusciously around the L. “Spells ‘slug.’ Like the beastie you were fighting earlier. Got it all stuck in my head and now I can’t get it out unless I sing it out, yeah?”

“You’re singing a song about a slug.” Buffy smirked at him in patent disbelief.

“Well, yeah, it seemed apropos, it did.” 

“This can’t be a real song. You totally made it up.”

Spike looked offended. “It bloody well is a real song. By the Ramones. Your musical education is sorely lacking, missy.”

“So, what, it’s an ode to slime?”

“Nah, it’s a tragic love story with a hidden twist. See, there’s this bloke an’ one night he sees a slug crawlin’ on his arm and he’s all ‘rarr, gerroff’ but what he doesn’t know is that the slug is really a slug demon, a LADY slug demon, and she’s all in love with his manly biceps so later she takes human form and becomes his girlfriend, yeah? But then one night he sees her walkin’ in the woods an’ he’s all, why’s my bird walkin’ in the woods at night? Like maybe she’s got another bloke on the side? So he follows her all jealous an’ sees her turning into a slug, an’ then he’s panicking because he’s been doin’ a slug, yeah? Gave her a right good rogering every night he did, but anyhow she turns these sad sad eyes to ‘im and says ‘now that you have seen my true form I must return to my magical slug kingdom in the moon, never to see you again,’ and she vanishes in a squelch of slime, an’ now he’s all wishin’ he could have her back again, yeah? But she’s gone an’ it’s his own damn fault for not havin’ a lick o’ trust. There’s a fan theory that it’s a true story, something that happened to Joey Ramone, but I don’t hold with that. I’m of the considered ‘pinion it was Dee Dee.”

When she was sure he was finished, Buffy crossed her arms and glared at him. “That’s all in the song?”

“Well, no, not spelled right out like that,” Spike admitted cheekily. “Mostly subtext, it is.”

“You’re still drunk,” Buffy fumed.

“Well, yeah,” Spike grinned. “Been, what, an hour or two since we left Watcher’s flat? Not gonna come down for a while here, pet. Though I’ll warn you, sometimes I get a mite maudlin in the wearing-off stage. That happens, best thing to do is pour me some more Scotch. The good stuff works best. Maybe give me a bit of a snog.”

“SO not happening.” ‘Snog’ was one of the few Britishisms she was pretty sure about, because Giles had used it a time or two when she and Spike had been engaged, and since she knew he couldn’t have seen where Spike’s hands had been silently (and evilly) wandering, it had to mean just kissing, right? Unless she had been making noises, because seriously Spike’s hands were as talented as his tongue, although she was NEVER going to tell anyone that, not even Willow, but what if Giles had figured out all the other stuff besides the kissing and he was just hiding behind sneaky British slang so he didn’t have to actually acknowledge hearing the noises she had been trying so hard not to make? Those were the questions before the Definitions Court: had she been making noises, and if so, did ‘snogging’ mean more than she thought? Not that it mattered, she reminded herself, because whatever ‘snogging’ really was, it wasn’t happening again. No matter how good those abs looked.

She had to do something to… neutralize Spike. Get him quiet, docile, and exactly 45 feet out of her way at all times so that she could get on with the hard core demon killing without all the distraction.

“What do you DO with a drunken vampire?” she muttered.

“Put ‘im in a coffin ‘til ‘e’s sober!” Spike looked at her expectantly, waiting.

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

Spike shook his head in disappointment. “No, see, you’re supposed to repeat the phrase ‘till we’ve said it three times, then we finish up with ‘ear-lye in the morning.’”

Buffy turned and started stalking through the headstones again, ignoring him as best she could. Spike agreeably swaggered along a few feet behind her, softly singing.

“What do y’do with a drunken vampire, what do y’do with a drunken vampire, what do y’do with a drunken vampire, ear-lye in the morning…”

“Stick ‘im in the sun until he smolders, stick ‘im in the sun until he smolders, stick ‘im in the sun until he smolders, ear-lye in the morning…”

What a fantastic idea, Buffy grumbled to herself, hoping he wasn’t scaring the demons away. She was getting even yet still more pissed off, which was quite the accomplishment considering, and it was somehow mixing together in her brain with the snogging and the abs and the secret memories of his hands doing naughty, naughty things, until she feared she might snap and tackle him to the ground, and she didn’t know if it was to kill him once and for all or to get his wicked, bad, naughty hands back on her in all the right (horribly wrong) places. She really needed a demon. If a demon showed up, she could just kill it and work all the Really Bad Thoughts out of her system in a wholesome, Watcher-approved way, and the question of kill-or-snog would be moot.

Spike kept on singing, oblivious. “Hey ho, and up she rises, hey ho, and up she rises, hey ho and up she rises, ear-lye in the morning…” He paused in thought a moment, then resumed.

“Stab ‘im with a stake until he’s dusty, stab ‘im with a stake until he’s dusty, stab ‘im with a stake until he’s dusty, ear-lye in the morning…”

“Hey ho, and up she rises, hey ho, and up she rises, hey ho let’s go, ear-lye in the morning…”

“Seriously, can you shut up?” Buffy snapped, whipping around.

Spike grinned and kept singing. “Strip off all ‘is clothes and suck his…”

Buffy punched him. He rolled over a few times, ending up sprawled on his back, still grinning at her. “Ear-lye in the morning!” he finished. He stretched like a big cat hoping to get a belly rub.

“I’m going with ‘Punch him in the nose until he SHUTS UP!’” Buffy stormed over to him, planting fists determinedly on her hips to prevent herself from getting hot on the clothes-stripping and the whatever-sucking and the snogging and the straddling him right there on the ground.

“See, you got the meter there, pet.” Spike nodded in approval.

“Look, Spike,” Buffy hissed through gritted teeth. “I know this is all just drunken fun and games to you, but I have an actual job to do here. A job which requires a little bit of stealth. I really do not need the Spike’s Greatest Hits soundtrack.”

“Aw, pet, am I getting to you?” He drooped his eyelids halfway. “Does this mean I get a spanking?”

“Oh, you’ll get a spanking all right!” Buffy was about to leap on him then, let the chips fall where they may, but a sudden roar fell on her ears like cool refreshing rain, and she whirled around to see a trio of green scaly things emerging from the bushes, glowing yellow eyes fixed on her.

“Oh, thank GOD!” she breathed, and started in on the ass-kicking.

\---

In the end she had to sneak Spike into the dorm anyhow, to pick up her toothbrush and pajamas and makeup and a couple changes of clothes before heading back to Giles’s place, but she made him wait just outside the door while she packed at top speed because Willow had gone to all the trouble of the disinvitation spell and she didn’t want to make her do it again. Spike had not been kidding about the maudlin bit; now he was half-singing, half sniffling something that sounded morbidly depressing, but he was keeping the volume down low so she figured as long as her Resident Counselor didn’t wake up he could just snivel away. She stuffed her sleepover kit into her pillowcase and slipped out the door.

“…An’ I’m alone, just me… Just me…” Spike was crooning as she pulled the door to.

“Can it, Spike,” Buffy interrupted in a harsh whisper. “We gotta get past Mandy’s door again. She has ears like a… like a… like an animal that hears really well.” God, she was tired.

Spike looked at her mournfully. “Hold up, Summers, gotta finish the phrase.” He closed his eyes and sang again, voice cracking a bit. “…QUESTIONINGLY-Y.” He bowed his head, swaying a bit as if to music in his head. Which Buffy guessed he must actually be doing, because an eight-count later he lifted his head, scrubbed a bit at his cheeks and said in a relatively normal voice, “All right, let’s go.”

“You sure you’re done? There isn’t another verse about losing your dog and your pickup truck?”

“Not country music, Slayer. Punk music’s about all the dark nooks and crannies o’ the human condition.” Spike pulled out a cigarette and started to light up; she snagged it out of his fingers, pointing at the No Smoking sign.

“Too bad you’re not human. Now sssh.”

They made it back out of the dorm without incident (about time something went right!) and back to Giles’s, where a sleepy-eyed Willow greeted them with relief. Giles was still absorbed in something on his desk.

“Any luck with the books?”

“Not as such,” Willow said, regret thick in her voice. “We did find some good glamours that might, you know, make it look less like you’re a dangerous parolee. Oh, and Xander and Anya dropped off the tent and tarps and stuff. Xander says he can meet you in the morning to help set it up if you want.”

“Sounds like a plan. Ooh, the chair has a drink holder!”

“Yeah, Xander said they went for the real high-end, classy stuff. Well, as high-end as they could go with the hundred dollars that Giles gave them.”

“Wow, big spender.”

“Yes,” Giles muttered without looking up from his book. “Because an unemployed ex-librarian has nothing better to do with his limited funds than expend them on sun protection for an unwelcome vampire.” The vampire in question was leaning up against the pass-through counter, staring tragically into his mug of blood.

“Also, Anya left you a card.” Willow handed it over with a grin.

It was a sparkly white confection of ribbons and doves that had ‘Congratulations on your wedding!’ in swirly, pearly embossed calligraphy. Anya had inserted ‘PRETEND’ before ‘wedding’ in her usual no-nonsense block printing. Tucked inside was a slightly-worn five dollar bill. Under the undoubtedly-sappy poem printed on fake-vellum (Buffy refused to read it) Xander and Anya had both signed their names, as promised; Anya’s was a joyous sprawl of curlicues, while Xander’s was a resentful, cramped, near-illegible scrawl that plainly said, ‘I don’t want to do this, but Anya said I’m not getting any of The Sex tonight if I don’t.’

“Wow.” Buffy waggled the card at Giles. “Anything to add to our pile of nuptial gifts, Giles?”

“I just paid for a popup tent and four tarps and a camp chair with a drink holder, I think I have fulfilled my gift-giving obligations rather admirably. In fact, since I did not receive any change or a receipt, I suspect I paid for that card as well. Spike, if you do not remove your hand from that decanter, I will chop it off.”

Spike quickly resumed his poetically tragic slouch. “Can’t a fellow even drink a toast on his wedding day?”

“Not with my Glenlivet, you can’t.”

“’S like you don’t even wish us happy a’tall.” Spike pouted his way over to the couch, where he took a goodly swig of Giles’s cognac instead, tucking the bottle back between the cushions. “An’ you the one as brought us together an’ all.”

“Yes, well.” Giles removed his glasses and closed the book before him. “As enjoyable as this entire day has been, I suggest we all get to our inadequate night’s sleep. Willow, shall I give you a ride back to the dorm?”

Willow agreed eagerly, and after a quick flurry of goodbyes and hugs and a nervous little wave at Spike, she and Giles were out the door. A moment later, Giles came back in, picked up a ruler off his desk, and ostentatiously measured the level of the Scotch in the decanter, before leaving again with a warning glare at Spike.

“So, Slayer,” Spike drawled, taking another swig of cognac. “Alone at last.” His voice was like velvet.

“So we are. And you can enjoy sleeping alone out here on the lumpy couch, while I go enjoy sleeping alone in the guest room. On Egyptian cotton sheets.” Buffy gathered up her pillow full of stuff and headed down the hall to the bathroom.

Spike watched her ass as she walked away, then shrugged his duster off and stretched out along the length of the couch, dangling his feet over the arm. He dozed off to the sound of the shower running.

\---

BEEP! …BEEP! …BEEP! The anklet sounded off, jolting him out of a very pleasant (which is to say, raunchy and bloody) dream of Option One. As he groggily sat up, the sound cut off. A quick glance confirmed that Giles’s jacket was back on its hook, so obviously a little time had passed.

Buffy stomped back into the room. “I can’t believe Giles’s guest room is more than fifty feet from this dumb couch.” Her hair was damp again and she was in pajamas, the blinking of the anklet visible through the flannel.

Spike eyed her up and down. “What’s that all over your jim jams, luv?”

“It’s sushi. These are my Yummy Sushi pajamas.” Buffy stalked over to the couch. “Here, turn around so your head is at the other end.”

“Hmm. Yummy Sushi, you say.” Spike leaned in to her as she tugged him around to face the way she wanted, inhaling her soapy scent and catching an excellent glimpse down the pajama neckline while he was at it. He was rather fond of sushi, he was, with lots of wasabi. He wanted to snap out and get a good mouthful of the maguro that perched at the crest of her breast, but he was much less drunk now (still not sober, of course) and had regained his sense of self-preservation, so he settled for drinking her in in all the non-literal ways, the ways that didn’t lead to immediate death. Without makeup, she looked and smelled tastier than ever.

He added the Yummy Sushi pajamas to his list.

Buffy glared at his feet one last time and headed off down the hall.

BEEP! …BEEP! …BEEP!

She returned, wordlessly yanked the couch a few feet closer to the hall, and left again.

After a few minutes, Spike assumed things were arranged to Buffy’s satisfaction, and rolled over onto his side, hoping to return to his Option One dream, which had been at a very interesting juncture indeed. He bent his knees to get more comfortable.

BEEP! …BEEP! …BEEP!

He straightened his legs and the beeping stopped. Bent them again.

BEEP! …BEEP! …BEEP!

Buffy stormed back down the hall, looking rumpled and wild-eyed and a little insane. She yanked the couch another foot closer to the hallway, clutched his ankles in her strong hands, and leaned over to stare straight into Spike’s eyes, pupils flaring with the light of sleep-deprived madness.

“IF YOU MOVE YOUR FEET ONE MORE TIME, I WILL RIP OFF YOUR HEAD WITH MY BARE HANDS.”

Spike was fairly certain the Slayer would be even angrier if she knew he had a perfect view of both of her breasts, dangling like ripe apples within the inadequate shield of her loose pajama top, so he wisely said nothing at all.

With a final warning squeeze of his ankles, Buffy disappeared again. Spike warily resumed a comfortable position, tucked his arm under his head, and eventually slipped back into dreamland.

In his new dream, he had a dish of wasabi paste, and the Slayer spread out before him with slices of raw fish placed strategically on her naked body. Yummy sushi, indeed. He tucked right in.

\---

Xander met them an hour before sunrise, with duct tape for the popup, a box of donuts and cups of coffee for Buffy, and an unwelcoming glare for Spike.

Spike was unperturbed. “Oh, thank you EVER so kindly, Xander, for your warm and generous hospitality.” He bowed sardonically.

“Shut up, Evil Undead. I’m not here to help you.” Xander helped Buffy lay out the frame pieces under the light of the streetlamps. “I just don’t want Buffy to have to deal with the consequences of you dusting before this is all taken care of.”

Spike snagged one of the cups of coffee. “Oh, yeah, Slayer might have to get her lily-white hands dirty scrubbing paint.”

“Hey, I get my hands dirty all the time.” Buffy was bleary and angry, and having trouble telling the tent frame pieces apart.

“So you do.” He smiled at the memory of Very Dirty Buffy from the night before.

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Xander grunted a bit, snapping some pieces into place. “I was thinking last night. About what might happen if you dusted while you and Buffy are still joined-at-the-ankle. Other than the, you know, fireworks and ticker tape parades.”

Spike dumped half his coffee on the ground and refilled the cup with the contents of his favorite flask. Good thing he had topped off his reserves before Watcher broke out his measuring stick. “Do tell.” He leaned up against the bank wall, admiring his handiwork of the night before. That was a very manly and expressive ‘F.’

Xander stretched the tent roof over the frame. “See, when a vampire dusts, he takes everything he’s wearing with him. Shoes, clothes, jewelry, sometimes even the stake that staked him, if you don’t pull it out fast enough. …Buffy, help me lift this up and we can start putting on the legs. I’d ask Spike to help, but then I’d want to punch him.”

Buffy shrugged as she held the roof up. “Yeah, kind of an expert on the vampire-dusting process by now. So, what, he goes dusty, the electronic ball-and-chain goes poof too? Not seeing the problem here. Other than the usual moral quandary of staking a helpless creature, and I’m pretty well getting over that.” Spike cast her a dark look, swigging his coffee-flavored booze.

Xander quickly attached the legs at each corner. “Depends on how those things work. If we’re lucky, one unit disintegrating just renders the other one dormant. Then you just have a fine piece of mandatory jewelry until Willow can figure out how to magic it off, or we convince the SPD to let you off the hook. No problem there.” He set the last of the legs on the ground, surveying the completed frame. “Let’s get the walls on here.”

“And if we’re not lucky?” Buffy rolled out a piece of vinyl. It WAS pretty thin.

“If we’re not lucky, the ankle bracelets work on a call-and-response system. So each one is sending out a radio signal, and if they don’t get a response back, or the response indicates that the other unit is too far away, the beeping starts. Your bracelet is tuned in to Spike’s. His bracelet disappears, your unit keeps sending out signals but getting no response.”

Buffy froze in the middle of hooking on her wall. “It would start beeping…”

“…And never stop.” Xander finished, looking at her with serious eyes.

Spike snickered. “That would be bleedin’ hilarious. Except for the ‘me not being there to watch it’ part.”

Buffy could feel a headache coming on. Or rather, feel her two-hours-of-sleep headache intensifying into a full-blown, my-life-sucks migraine. “So I guess dusting Spike is off the table for good now.”

“Hence the me-helping-you-help-him.” Xander dusted his hands off. “Ho-kay, so now we leave that side open, aim it at wherever Spike needs to employ his janitorial skills, and voila! Portable vampire shield. We just need to tape these tarps up on the inside for extra sun-blockage, maybe get a couple rocks to weight down the edges, and you’re good for a day of UNcrispy Community Service.”

“Well then. Donut break?” Buffy settled into her camp chair, sticking her coffee cup in the drink holder. “Ooo, comfy.”

“That’s why I brought ‘em!” Xander popped the lid. “Hey, did you take a jelly donut?” He glared accusingly at Spike.

“’Course I did. All that red oozing out? Gives me the visual, if not the actual joy of the kill.” Spike delicately wiped a smudge of powdered sugar from the corner of his mouth.

“Jerk.”

Spike spread his arms. “EVIL.” He noticed a bit more powdered sugar on the lapel of his duster and brushed it away.

“Ah well. Good thing I went jelly on the whole dozen,” Xander said with relish, passing a donut to Buffy and taking a big powdered-sugary bite of his own. Some jelly squirted onto his chin.

Buffy looked at him askance. “Gotta say, I’m not getting the ‘Blood of the Innocent’ vibe here.”

“That’s ‘cos it’s Xander. Here, watch me.” Spike sauntered over and selected another donut.

“Hey!” Xander protested through a mouthful of jelly.

Spike ignored him and locked eyes with Buffy. She raised her eyebrows in challenge. He slowly raised the donut to his mouth and sank his teeth into the very edge. The tiniest bit of jelly oozed out and landed in the corner of his mouth.

Buffy started to feel a bit oozey herself.

Bite by bite he devoured the donut, tongue occasionally slipping out to catch a drop of jelly or a smidge of powdered sugar. After tucking the last morsel behind his wicked curling lips, he licked the powdered sugar off each finger in turn. Buffy watched every evil moment.

“See Slayer? ‘S all in the technique.” He brushed at his lapels again.

“Definitely evil,” Buffy managed. She was never going to look at a jelly donut the same way again.

Xander briskly brushed his hands together in a shower of powdered sugar. “You know, much as I’d like to continue all this playful banter, sun’s coming up in a bit here. Let’s do this thing.”

\---

At precisely 7:00 AM, a police cruiser pulled in to park at the curb, a silver luxury sedan close behind. The tent was in place up against the left pillar of the bank entrance (Buffy having decreed that “CK!” was a trifle less offensive than “FU”) and Spike was inside, safe from the light of the rising sun. Probably drinking. Buffy watched in bleary resentment as two officers stepped from the patrol vehicle; much to her surprise, the Police Chief got out of the sedan. Though she guessed she shouldn’t be surprised after all; he was undoubtedly there to gloat.

Xander had departed a few minutes earlier to try and catch some more sleep before his afternoon pizza delivery shift, leaving behind seven jelly donuts (he snagged another one to eat on the way home) and two more cups of coffee. Buffy was absolutely certain that was not going to be enough caffeine. She was floating in a headachey fog of sugar rush and vague indigestion, and the foremost thought in her mind was that she was going to have a hell of a time taking notes in her Philosophy class that afternoon. (Her second thought was that if she ate any more jelly donuts, she may as well kiss those leather pants goodbye, and her third thought was that she should make Spike eat all the jelly donuts, preferably with his shirt off and possibly an extra powdered sugar shaker, and at that point she determinedly stopped thinking because she obviously had a Bad Bad Brain.)

“So, Ms. Summers.” The Police chief came to stand before her, a tiny smile trifling at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you for being so prompt.” He eyed the tent. “Is the circus in town?”

“No, we… uh… We just thought that, you know, the sun might make it harder for Spike to perform his civic duty. You know, with the sunburn… and the sunstroke… skin cancer…” She trailed off as it became clear that Chief Benson didn’t actually care.

“Then I assume he’s in there, ready to get to work.” The police chief had moved a little to the east, so the sun was right over her shoulder, which was completely unfair. She squinted as her tired eyes teared up.

“Yes, we thought the, um, profanity was probably the best place to start. Think of the children and all that.”

“Of course.” He gestured to the two uniforms, a bulky, crewcut man, who was carrying a bin of buckets and brushes and cleaning fluids, and a crisp, square-jawed woman. “Officers Lin and Michaels here will be supervising your supervision, and have instructions on the best methods for the removal of graffiti, as well as appropriate supplies.”

Well, peachy. “I hate to ask this, but… I have class at one. I know we have a schedule here, and I don’t want to try to, you know, back out of it, but…”

“We actually prefer that you only work until about eleven. The businesses of Main Street have requested that their storefronts not be blocked during the lunch hour.”

“Well that’s… good then.”

The Chief nodded briskly, and held out his hand to shake. Glowering, Buffy took it, squeezing a trifle harder than she probably needed to. He didn’t flinch. “Thank you for your service to Sunnydale, Ms. Summers. I look forward to seeing you again… soon.” He spoke a few quiet words to his officers and strode towards his car.

Not if I see you first, Buffy groused as his fancy-ass car slid smoothly away from the curb. But at least the fun (in theory, if likely not in practice) part of the day was beginning: Making Spike do things he didn’t want to do.

There had been a brief confrontation before they left Giles’s apartment for Main Street, over the fact that they were leaving Giles’s apartment for Main Street, which had ended up with him grudgingly (and under threat of Serious Pain That Would Make Him Wish He Had Been Staked) admitting that getting rid of the ankle bracelets was top priority, and that they were (as he put it) ‘bloody well buggered’ until that task was managed. But his good mood of the night before had vanished with the whiskey fumes, and he was cranky, sulky, and just plain ornery. So it was with no small trepidation that she approached the shadowed opening of their Vampire Shield, flanked by Officers Bearing Gifts, to tell him to get cracking. (She had briefly considered the merits of applying for a trademark for the Vampire Shield brand, because that was kind of catchy and there was probably a market for it, but then admitted to herself that the Vampire Slayer should probably not be selling products intended to keep vampires alive.)

With the sun up, the tent interior glowed a dim green, like a claustrophobic plastic forest. Spike was indeed slouched in her campchair in a broody, resentful hunch, much like she imagined Satan would look if he ever went camping in the Adirondacks, eyes shooting daggers at her from under his thick black brows, but then the officers slipped in behind her, and his face lit up like Christmas.

“Officer Michaels! What a pleasant surprise!”

Spike slunk to his feet like a panther and glided forward to kiss Officer Michaels on the hand. Buffy watched aghast as the woman blushed. Lin’s face twitched in something Buffy couldn’t quite interpret (probably annoyance, because Spike), set down his burden, and stepped back outside; she saw his shadow on the tarp as he took a station outside.

Spike and Michaels were speaking in low voices, their heads close together, and rather than look like she cared what they were saying, Buffy flounced over to her chair and took a seat, arms folded, fingers drumming on her biceps. Spike’s flask was in her drink holder; she picked it up gingerly with two fingers and set it on the ground, replacing it with her second-to-last cup of coffee.

Michaels handed Spike a large envelope; he rewarded her with a charming smile – the one Buffy had seen him use when he was sure of his kill – and leaned in to whisper in her ear. She giggled – GIGGLED! – and reached around him to pull something out of the supply bin. (Buffy was fairly certain Officer Groupie deliberately brushed certain parts of herself against certain parts of Spike in the process, though her angle made it difficult to know for sure, and she refused to crane her neck. The smug look on Spike’s face seemed pretty conclusive, though.) Buffy half expected the officer’s hand to be holding something kinky, like fuzzy pink handcuffs or a riding crop or maybe a Tupperware tub of lime Jell-O, but instead it was a brush. Not a soft, sweepy brush or even a kinda-rough bristly brush, but a brush made of shiny hard wires that no person in their right mind would use on their hair. If that was getting used in some kind of kink, she really didn’t want to know how.

Spike murmured something in a deep, dark-chocolate voice, and Officer Michaels smiled adoringly (!!!), stepped in a little closer to Spike – and started scrubbing away at the letter ‘F’ with the wire brush.

“Hey there,” Buffy yelped. “Spike’s supposed to be doing all the work here.”

Spike tossed a glance over his shoulder, smirking. “She’s just showing me how it’s done, luv. Officer Michaels here is an expert in the techniques of graffiti removal. Can’t clean it up proper if I don’t know how.” Michaels basked in his approval, darting a look of venom at Buffy.

“Well, now you know, and knowing – as they say – is half the battle. I think we can take it from here.” Buffy sat back in the chair, feeling like the Queen Bitch of Bitchonia. Which actually felt kind of good. Tomorrow she should bring her tiara.

Another whispered conversation and a shared soulful look, and Michaels grudgingly left the tent. Spike leaned up against the FU pillar and started to light up a cigarette.

“Seriously, Spike, can you just get to work?” Buffy drank some of her cold, bitter coffee.

Spike took a good drag on his cigarette, then looked over at her darkly. “Look, Summers, we’ve already had the inspirational talk about what needs to be done so we can get rid of our shackles, and how much pain I’m going to be in if I dawdle. And I’m no stranger to hard work. Like getting my hands dirty, I do. Did plenty of the digging for that Gem of Amara myself, didn’t I? Just want a bit of a smoke first, is all.”

“You can smoke and scrub at the same time. I just want to get this over with.” Their eyes clashed. Finally, Spike sighed.

“Fine, Slayer. Don’t get your panties in a bind.” He shed his duster and his red button-down, draping them over the supply bin, and started scrubbing desultorily, cigarette between his lips.

“My panties are none of your business.” Buffy added Spike’s arms to her Perfect Man wishlist. That little dent that disappeared and reappeared in his deltoid as he scrubbed was mesmerizing.

“My, my. Bit on edge today, are we? You look all cross and domineering. Need a good whip to complete the image.” He stubbed out his cigarette, sweeping a glance down her from head to toe.

“Sadly, whips are not to be found on the shelves at the finer stores of Sunnydale. Or the less fine stores. Or even S-mart.”

“They are if you know where to look. Had one back at my last place, good leather, it was. Could fetch it for you. Teach you how to use it properly.”

“No! I don’t want to learn how to use a whip!” Buffy hissed, hoping the police officers weren’t listening in.

“Don’t you?” Spike shrugged and scrubbed at the ‘F’ a bit more. “Shame, that.”

“Yes, well, sorry to disappoint you.”

He scrubbed for a few minutes more in blessed silence. Buffy watched and sipped her coffee. Mmmmm. And she was totally thinking about the coffee.

“Could find you a riding crop,” he said finally. “Better at close quarters.”

“No, thank you.” Buffy eyed the envelope that Officer Michaels had given him, which was peeking out of his duster pocket, and leaped at the opportunity to change the subject. “So, more wedding gifts? Or just a love letter from your Biggest Fan?”

“What?” Buffy nodded at his pocket. “Oh, this? Dunno. She said it was from everyone down at the station.” He pulled it out, turned it over a couple of times, weighed it in his hand, then tossed it to Buffy. “No money inside. Why don’t you read it to me?”

“This better not be anything gross.” Buffy slid her finger under the flap and pulled out the card. “Awww, they’re ‘Thinking of You!’ Guess they couldn’t find a card that said ‘Lustful Thoughts from your Groupies at the Police Station,’ or ‘Enjoy Your Mandatory Community Service!’”

“Yeah, ‘spect not.” Spike kept cleaning, smug little smile on his face.

Buffy opened the card. “Jeez, how many people did you hit on at the station?”

“Dunno, how many employees does the Sunnyhell PD have?”

Buffy counted. “You’ve got about twenty… no, wait, there’s more on the back… thirty signatures here. Lots of hopeful hearts. A couple even-more-hopeful phone numbers.” She glared at him. “Including Officer Michaels.”

“Can’t help my animal magnetism, luv. Law enforcement types are ‘specially susceptible to the bad boy image. The attitude makes ‘em wanna cuff us and give us a right good interrogation.” He finished erasing the ‘F’ with an emphatic sweep of the brush, a reminiscent look on his face. “Sometimes there’s a pair, want to play ‘Good Cop, Bad Cop.’ In the end they’re usually both Bad, though. Which is always good.”

Buffy tossed the card behind her; it hit the tarp with a satisfying THWAP! “Well, I’m sure you can round up cops of all alignments with the phone numbers you’ve collected.”

Spike shrugged and started on the ‘U.’ “No phone.”

“Seriously? Giles has a phone.”

“Yeah, well.” Spike concentrated on a particularly resistant drop of paint. “Can’t say I’d mind a good shag. An’ I do like to flirt with a woman who knows what she wants. ‘S just not the same without, you know, the hunt.”

Buffy’s face went cold. “You mean the kill.”

“Wasn’t talkin’ about killing here, Slayer.” Spike sat down, rummaged in his duster, finally finding a flask. (How many flasks does he have? Buffy wondered, glaring at the one beside her chair.) He unscrewed the lid and took a swig before continuing in an even, matter-of-fact voice. “Not gonna deny I miss it. ‘S what I am, what I do, and now that it’s gone, don’t rightly feel like myself any more. Not sure what I am now. And you got no call to turn up your nose at me. You kill demons every night, killed six just a few hours ago, and you can’t tell me you don’t enjoy it. I watched you. You loved every minute of it.”

“And? They were demons. It’s my job.” Buffy felt surprisingly calm, discussing killing with her mortal enemy over drinks. It was like the glowing green tent was the whole world, and they were the only two creatures left after the apocalypse. Sharing a final toast under a flag of truce.

“Yeah, it is. And you truly love your work.” Spike leaned against the pillar and looked at her steadily. “What I’m saying is, even killing’s hardly any fun if they just queue up for their turn like automatons. You’d feel the same way, demons just knocked on your door and bared their necks for the slaughter. Same thing with shagging. Good for the ego, it is, knowing I could crook my finger and have a saucy lady in uniform clap me in handcuffs and do me proper, but in practice it’s boring. Kill’s no good without the fight, and a shag’s no good without the seduction. That’s the hunt I meant.” He looked down and took another swig of Giles’s Glenlivet. “Rather be dust than bored. Way I hear it, we vampires haven’t a thing to look forward to past the dissolution of our bodies. Just fade away into oblivion. Boredom’s like oblivion, except without the luxury of being oblivious.” He swirled his flask around meditatively. “Besides, can you feature me on the phone? Ringing up some bird for a chat? Not hardly my style.” He met Buffy’s eyes again, looking oddly vulnerable.

Buffy felt like she should be saying something snarky, something to knock Spike’s ego back down, turn his too-perceptive eyes mean and distant again, but she just looked at him and sipped her coffee while he drank his Scotch.

A few minutes later, Spike tucked his flask away again, and silently got back to work.

\---

Of course, the silence didn’t last.

Spike was apparently back in a good mood again, despite being (she surmised) barely, if at all, drunk. And apparently Good Mood Chipped Spike liked two things more than anything: Annoying Buffy, and Singing.

Buffy couldn’t decide which was worse. Technically, the Singing also fell under the umbrella of Annoying Buffy, but it was such a special little sub-genre, so precisely geared to push all of her buttons at once, that she felt it might still come out on top.

It didn’t help that the first song Spike sang had a frequently-repeated refrain of “Bad, bad brain!” which was so exactly what she had been thinking earlier that she briefly wondered if vampires developed the ability to read minds over time, and if so, if he knew what she had been thinking all morning as she watched him work, because if that was the case she was absolutely going to die of shame, right there in front of the First Bank of Sunnydale. But then he moved on to something about beating on a brat with a baseball bat, and she decided he just had completely crappy taste in music, and she was going to die of having to listen to Spike sing crappy music, right there in front of the First Bank of Sunnydale.

Then he finished up with the ‘U’ and they had to shift the tent around to the other side of the bank entrance, which involved Buffy gathering all the rocks weighing down the tarp edges and piling them in her camp chair, along with the donut box and the cupholder (down to one cup of coffee) and Spike’s flask and annoying greeting card, while Spike held on to the frame to keep it from blowing away in the so-conveniently strong breeze, and then the two of them leapfrogging the tent and the chair and the box of supplies off to the right so that everything still stayed under the tent, and then Buffy replacing all the rocks while Spike held on to the frame again, until everything was where it needed to be and Spike could start on the ‘C.’ At least the bank wasn’t open yet, so they didn’t have an audience for their strange ballet except the bank’s night security watchman, who watched in slack-jawed confusion through the open side of the tent as they shuffled past the glass doors. (Buffy didn’t waste any attention on what Officers Silent and Skanky might think of the process, watching from the outside.) And then Buffy’s chair was covered in rock dust, and she didn’t have enough napkins left to dust it off properly. (She sat down anyhow, because she figured a dusty butt was still better than standing for another (she checked her watch) two-and-a-half hours.)

And all the while Spike was singing about Sheena (who was ‘punk punk, a punk rocker’ repeated ad infinitum) and the KKK (who took his baby away) and not wanting to go down to the basement (what the hell?), punctuated with occasional rude, lewd, or just random and infuriating comments. (For the record, she did not agree that his lopsided exclamation point was ‘brilliant’ or that Giles should give him an allowance or that Charles Manson was ‘just misunderstood’ and maybe all he needed was a lovely birthday party. And then he sang ANOTHER song about THAT.)

When Spike finally brushed away the last specks of the exclamation point, it was so close to eleven and Buffy was so overloaded with irritation (at Spike) and resentment (at the Police Chief and the SPD, and also Spike) and exhaustion (whaddya know! Spike!) that she didn’t suggest they move on to another task and in fact didn’t care if they ever finished cleaning, because she could just chop off Spike’s foot, dust him, and carry his anklet around with her in her purse. Take off for Havana. Except not Havana, because Spike had sung about that too, and it had put her off island paradises forever. Maybe Bhutan. She had heard it was an interesting place. They had Gross National Happiness, or something like that. She could go for that.

“Bhutan?” Spike repeated, cigarette between his lips. Oh god, had she said all that out loud? Or just the end bit? “Ain’t Bhutan the place with merry cocks painted on all the walls?” He flicked his lighter. He also seemed disinclined to move on to their next task.

“I…hadn’t heard about the happy chicken art of Bhutan, no.”

“Not chickens, Slayer. Other kind o’ cocks.” Spike grinned, taking a long, suggestive drag off his cigarette. “Generally very HAPPY ones indeed, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, EW. Really? Spike, do you actually research disgusting trivia, or are you just making this up?” She hoped against all hope that that was not what Gross National Happiness actually meant. Because, gross.

“Now, Slayer, celebrating the human body in all its glory is a fine artistic tradition dating back to classical times. Many a great artist has set hand to the essence of masculinity. You should try it some time.”

That was a lot of big words, and Buffy was too tired to work through all of them, but she was pretty sure the underlying meaning was nasty, so she grabbed a donut and threw it at him, hoping it would splat on his face.

He caught it (stupid vampire reflexes) and grinned. “Why thank you, Slayer. I could use a bite.” He took a lascivious chomp, jelly staining the corners of his mouth.

Buffy thought it was even hotter than the last jelly donut he had eaten, because now she could see his goddamn deltoid, flexing as he brought the donut to his mouth, and it was just infuriating because it wasn’t fair. Not fair that he kissed like expensive ice cream and had delicious abs and arms and didn’t actually need sleep, at least not as much as she did, and could eat all the donuts in the world and still fit into his stupid jeans, and COMPLETELY not fair that she had to babysit him for at least a week because he and the police and Giles and probably the stupid Powers That Be had it in for her.

Well, the green leather pants could go to Goodwill. She was eating another damn donut, and she didn’t care.

She snatched up her own donut from the box on the ground and took a bite the smart way, where the hole was, because that didn’t get raspberry jelly all over the place, except OF COURSE she bit a little too hard because she was so mad, and it squirted onto her hand anyway.

She was licking it off (because all the stupid napkins had stupid rock dust on them) when she realized Spike had stopped eating his own donut and was surreptitiously watching her, eyes glittering.

Buffy recognized that look. He had worn it when they fought their very first time, in the halls of Sunnydale High School, and indeed whenever they fought one on one, trading punches and barbs like party conversation. They had also glittered just so under Willow’s spell, when he leaned in and whispered naughty suggestions in her ear, and did naughty things with his evil hands and pulled her down for naughty, naughty kisses. That look meant WANT, and right now she didn’t care if he wanted her blood or her body or a goddamn pony, because what she wanted was payback.

Watching him through her lashes, Buffy eased back in her camp chair, tilting her head a bit to expose her throat, and continued to lick the jelly off her hand, then returned to her donut, nibbling suggestively around the edge.

From the narrowing of his eyes, she could tell Spike had caught on to her game; he took another pointed bite, and another, eating delicately around the jelly center until there was barely any donut left, then sipped the oozing jelly through pursed lips.

Buffy gazed nonchalantly off to one side and stroked one finger down her neck, leaving a trail of powdered sugar and jelly to her jugular vein. She placed an edge of her donut in her mouth and sucked out the jelly with a sensual “Mmmmmm!” devouring the last bits of pastry in swift, darting bites.

She could feel Spike coming closer, and prepared to punch him in the nose when he touched her, but he dropped to his knees instead. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hand take another donut out of the box. She turned her head back towards him, sucking a finger into her mouth and dragging it along her lower lip, ostentatiously recrossing her legs.in her best Sharon Stone imitation. Well, Sharon Stone in pants. But they were really sexy pants.

Spike’s eyes deliberately traveled up her body as if she were Sharon Stone buck naked, taking small, sucking bites of his fresh donut. She could feel them on her body, each sensitive spot quivering as his eyes passed over it. She licked her lips and realized the powdered sugar was all gone, already licked away, and also that Spike was somehow winning because she felt like a jelly donut, all liquid and soft and eatable, and she was sure as hell not going to lose this whatever-it-was competition. She was in this to win.

She shifted forward in her chair and reached down slowly to the box between them, taking her time about selecting her next donut so that she could be sure he had a good look at her neck and her boobage, thanking the Wardrobe Gods that she had opted that morning for a loose, comfy scoopneck and one of her favorite bras, with little cherries scattered over it. She hoped Spike appreciated the theme. When she felt him leaning in, she pulled back just enough to rest her elbows on her knees, donut in her right hand, donutless arm slung sideways to prop her breasts up into cleavage, so they were almost spilling out of the shirt.

She couldn’t look at him, she couldn’t, she had never done anything like this before, but of course she had to look, and when she did his eyes were drinking her in, like she was a brimful glass of whatever that liquor was that he and Giles were always fighting over, still eating his donut bite after bite but absently, as if he didn’t even know what he was eating, and that made her hotter than when he was trying his damnedest to make her hot. She fumbled her donut, nearly dropped it between bites, and powdered sugar spilled across her chest and down into her bra, and Spike gave a strangled groan that made her feel powerful and beautiful and melty, and they ate and looked and ate and somehow both their donuts were gone at the same time.

They reached for the box in unison, fingertips touching like butterfly wings, fluttering and fragile, and then the donuts were in their hands and sliding into their mouths, jelly dripping and they didn’t care, they were lost, and the donuts were gone, consumed, devoured, and somehow Spike’s knees were pressing into the outsides of her boots, he was so close, the donut box the only thing between them. She looked down and there was only one donut left and she had to have it, it was the last donut, she had to have it, and she lunged down for it, but Spike’s fingers were faster, and the donut was out of the box and in his mouth, he was smiling in triumph around it.

And then she was oozing down into his lap, because she had to have it, and she was going to take it, she took a bite, and another, and another, and then the donut was gone and all that was left was the devouring, tongues sliding together in sugar and raspberry and it was just like she remembered, just like Häagen Dazs, cool and sweet and perfect. There was sugar on his cheek, and she licked it off, and then his tongue was on her throat, long smooth sinful strokes, and her powdered sugar hands on his chest and his shoulders and his beautiful stomach, handprints all over his black shirt, as his tongue traveled down across her quivering chest, following the trail of spilled sugar. It was wonderful, but it wasn’t enough, and she grabbed his hand and sucked his fingers into her mouth one by one, just to get the sugar, all they were doing was cleaning up the sugar and the jelly, she told herself, but really who was she kidding? She didn’t care about the sugar, she wanted more, she had to have it, and she was going to take it. So she slid Spike’s damp hand down into her shirt, and that was all the hint he needed to scoop her breast out into the cool air and his lips and tongue and teeth were on her like heaven, she arched her back and gasped and put her sticky hands in his hair, his other hand holding her snug against him, throbbing and pulsing, she was all made of jelly and she wanted wanted wanted –

And froze as she heard Willow’s chirpy voice outside the tent, bare feet away.

“Um, Hi! Just have a quick delivery for the chain gang. All right if I go in?”

Buffy shoved herself away from Spike in panic, stuffing her boob back inside her sticky bra and yanking her neckline up. “Oh, god!” she moaned. Did she look like she had been doing what she had been doing? What they had been doing? Oh god, what had they been doing?

Spike looked up from the ground, face a mix of frustration and lust and hope and a hint of smugness, eyes still glittering. “Problem, luv?” He licked his lips.

She stared in shock at the streaks of powdered sugar in his rumpled hair, and the handprints all over his shirt, everywhere she had touched, like a treasure map of all the places she wanted to touch again, except without the shirt next time, but she heard the tarps rustling as Willow started to come in, so she grabbed the donut box all full of powdered sugar and shoved it right into his chest. A cloud of white burst all over him, and now he was glaring death up at her through the sugar, falling like snow, and then Willow poked her head into the tent, cheery smile fading at the sight of the mess.

“Wow,” she said. “Donut fight?”

 

End Chapter 4

 

Chapter 4 Author’s Notes:

Spike was right about “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus,” attributed for centuries to Pieter Bruegel, although the current prevailing belief is that the painting in Brussels is a copy done by one of Bruegel’s contemporaries, the original being lost. The poet referenced is William Carlos Williams, who was a mentor to Beat poet Allen Ginsberg and died in 1963. I am quite certain Spike loves Ginsberg’s “Howl.”

Spike was also right about the penis art of Bhutan. Check it out, yo!

“Slug” is a real song by the Ramones. Spike’s interpretation is not in any way official, but makes a lot of sense. More sense than the song itself. You can hear it on the Spotify playlist I made for this fic because I have no life, with other songs or recordings referenced or parodied at various points (as many as I could find at least, you’ll have to hit Youtube for the Black Knight, Mr. Creosote, and the Passions theme song [“Breathe” by Jane French]). As a playlist it’s weird as dirt, but this fic is kind of a mixed bag itself. It will undoubtedly grow as the fic does, in an inexplicable Lovecraftian sprawl of WTF and Ramones. 

http://open.spotify.com/user/12180930371/playlist/7kYFWkLY7ewIbqvj4KEbAW

Technically, Spike’s dream is of Yummy Sashimi, since sushi requires vinegared rice, but Yummy Sushi sounds better. I had to mention it here, because Pedantic Japanophile.

Gratuitous quotes (or near-quotes) from: all those old cartoons that used “razzlefrazzle” or similar phrasing to simulate cursing, G.I. Joe.


	5. Altercation

Buffy really, really loved Willow. But never before in her life had she so very much wanted someone to go away. And considering that her life included a couple years of Spike doing his damnedest to drive her around the bend, up the wall, and off the sheer cliffs of insanity, that was really saying something. Her skin was still tingling, feeling ghost phantoms of Spike’s lips and tongue and wicked, wicked hands, and the lust and fury in his eyes – lashes frosted now with powdered sugar – made her wish she was back to feeling hot and wet and glorious, instead of uncomfortably sticky and guilty and vaguely embarrassed.

In a few minutes, she knew regret would sink in, because Spike was evil and annoying and all that, and she had to admit a tiny thin-walled tent in front of the First Bank of Sunnydale during business hours with a police escort was right up there on the podium for Worst Possible Place To Get Busy, but at this very moment it seemed she had been starving forever, finally invited to a feast and then her plate taken away after the barest taste. She was tired of nibbling at hors-d’oeuvres; she wanted a freakin’ ENTRÉE.

But Willow was smiling in that charming, lopsided way of hers, that way that made it possible to forgive her anything, even trying to end the world (as if that would ever happen), and Buffy made herself smile in welcome.

“Yeah, donut fight. That’s totally what it was. Spike was…” She searched for the right word, one that would sum things up without either clueing Willow in or pissing Spike off so much he’d just blurt it all right out. “Spike was being an instigator.”

He grinned like a shark. “Oh, I was instigating, all right. Bet Buffy’s still feeling the results of my… instigation.” IN HER PANTS was left unsaid, but the words hung between them like a Broadway marquee.

“Oh, I am.” Buffy said hurriedly, before Willow picked up on the undercurrents. “But I sure showed him.”

Spike relaxed back on his elbows, glaring. “Not sure I learned my lesson, luv. You might have to show me again later.” With the powdered sugar like frosting on top, he looked like a sulky Sno-Cap, which by odd coincidence was Buffy’s favorite movie theater candy – she used to take them one at a time in her mouth, and nibble the white nonpareils off until all she was left with was the chocolate chip melting on her warm tongue – and what a VERY unhelpful analogy that was at this very moment in time.

Willow’s eyes were starting to narrow – because while she might be clueless about romance sometimes, she was assuredly not stupid – so a change of subject was definitely in order. “So, you, uh, brought us something?” Buffy stammered.

“Just call me Jewish Girl Santa!” Buffy tore her eyes away from Spike, and noticed Willow was laden down with bags. “Okay, I have lunch for both of you – Spike, Giles wouldn’t let me put blood in his thermos so it’s probably cooled down a bit by now, but hopefully the lunchbox insulated it some – and Buffy, I have your backpack for class this afternoon, too.” Willow set down the backpack and handed over the food. “If I’d known you two were going to have a rumble, I’d’ve brought a change of clothes too. There probably isn’t time to go back to the dorm and shower, huh?”

“No, probably not.” Though from the arrested look in Spike’s eyes as he started in on his blood, he obviously was now thinking the same thing she was, about the shower and the soap and the steam… “I couldn’t bring Spike in the dorm shower anyhow. We’ll have to clean up at Giles’s later.” Spike raised his eyebrows.

“Tell you what, I’ll go get some damp paper towels from the movie theater restroom. You two eat.” Willow dropped the rest of her bags and slipped out of the tent again.

“No, wait!” Buffy started, but Willow was off on her mission of mercy, and she and Spike were alone again. (Which was exactly what she had wanted a minute ago, or pretty close at least, but now that it was happening she wasn’t completely sure it was a good idea.) He had already finished his bag of lukewarm blood, and was rolling to his feet, which was definitely of the good because it meant she couldn’t pounce on him, except then he tossed the empty blood bag aside and started to walk towards her, eyes almost closed, gazing downwards.

Oh God, he was doing THAT THING. Her legs quivered in anticipation.

Still looking down thoughtfully, he took another confident, prowling step. “So, Slayer. An instigator, am I?” Closer. His voice was soft and sleek as butter. “As I recall it, I was not the one to… strike the first blow.”

“You were…” Buffy gulped. “You provoked me. With the singing and the talking.”

“Did I?” He was right in front of her now, still not looking. “Was I… provoking?”

And then he looked up at her.

Buffy’s snappy retort dried up in her mouth, and she looked into his eyes, all rage and hunger and desire with something soft and melting underneath, something like fear or hope but not quite either, and it was like a truth spell, burning away her shield of quips and puns and tiny white lies.

“Yes,” she whispered.

THAT THING should be illegal. (Except when had that ever stopped Spike?)

He looked down again, but now he was so close that “down” was still HER, and she felt his finger stickily tracing the neckline of her shirt.

“Am I provoking you now?” His voice was a growl, resonating through her bones. His other hand was toying with the button of her pants. She closed her eyes, hoping Willow had gone to some bathroom on the other side of town.

“Yes.” She gasped it out, her stomach heaving like a bellows.

“Mmmm.” He pressed his forehead against hers, and then his hands were sliding, sliding just where she wanted them to go, fingers dancing across her sticky pebbled nipple and other fingers gliding down and down beneath all the layers of damp fabric, and “OH!” she said and rocked against them.

And then his hands were gone and he stepped back, a little smile of vengeful confirmation on his face. “Good to know,” he purred, and turned to walk away.

The SNOG VS. KILL meter in Buffy’s confused brain flipped all the way back to KILL. (Well, at least MAIM. Because there were things he was goddamn well going to take care of before he was allowed to die. Okay, so it was easing back towards SNOG, which she still wasn’t clear on the official definition of, but there was still some serious beatdown in order.)

She threw his flask and the chair and the empty coffee cups and his stupid card at his head. (The flask and the chair landed, while the lighter items crashed short of their target, but the throwing was the important thing anyhow.) Spike pointedly ignored it all, lovingly brushing dust and powdered sugar off his duster.

Willow popped back into the tent then, arms loaded down with dripping paper towels and neck festooned with mostly-dry ones. “Now, you kids stop your rassling!” she mock-scolded, handing off the majority of her load to Spike, who started to scrub at his hair and face, whistling.

Buffy accepted her share of the towel spoils and started sponging off the remnants of sugar on her chest, trying not to watch Spike, because he was assiduously not looking at her, the jerk, and she was so not going to be the one who did the looking first. It didn’t help matters that Willow was helping, because she couldn’t very well wipe UNDER her clothes without Willow wondering why she needed to, and so she was still going to have sticky reminders of Spike even when she finally managed to convince her body that it was not getting any in the near future. Which it obviously wasn’t. Goddammit.

“You should eat your sandwich,” Willow fussed, swiping at Buffy’s arm. “Proper nutrition is very important for students and slayers alike. I should have known Xander would load you up on sugar and caffeine. No wonder you were all bouncing off the tent walls like crazed weasels.”

You have no idea. “I’ll eat it.” Buffy promised, though the sandwich looked completely unappetizing after brunching on donut-covered Spike. “I could actually use some more coffee, though. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Aww, poor Buffy.” Willow wadded up the used paper towels and stuffed them in a plastic bag. “Tell you what, I’m going by the coffee shop after this, I can pick you up a mocha latte and meet you before your one o’clock. Your Philosophy professor lets you have drinks in class, right?”

“Yeah, he’s pretty laid-back. That would be fabulous.”

“They sell hot wings at this coffee shop?” Spike broke in. His face and hands were clean, his hair curling damply over his forehead, but his shirt was still a muddy grey. “I could really use something to cover up this funny aftertaste in my mouth. Somethin’ I ate obviously didn’t agree with me.” He gave his T-shirt one last disgusted swipe, then tossed his towels on the ground and grabbed his red shirt, shaking it out.

“Sorry, no hot wings. Just coffee and conversation. Maybe bran muffins.” Spike shuddered and slipped on his shirt, buttoning it up over the sugar-frosted T-shirt.

“Conversation?” Buffy slanted a shrewd look at her best friend. “And just who might we be conversing with?”

“I, uh, decided to give low-fat yogurt a try.” Willow managed to look awkward and excited at the same time.

Buffy play-punched her on the arm. “Go, Willow! You’re a fast worker.”

“Well I figured I should strike while the iron’s, you know, on the rebound. But it’s nothing serious. Just coffee.”

“Coffee, yogurt and bran muffins.” Spike’s voice was disgusted. “Life is wasted on the living.” He settled his duster over his shoulders with a sigh of relief, slipping his flasks into different pockets and pulling out a cigarette. He looked odd with the red shirt buttoned – not bad, Buffy reasoned, just not quite himself. Like a sheep in wolf’s clothing. 

Officer Lin chose that moment to enter the tent, face impassive. “Time to pack up,” he said shortly.

Spike was in the middle of lighting his cigarette, so Buffy picked up the wire brush from where he had dropped it and returned it to the bin. “Here you go!” she said with false cheeriness. “We’ll be here bright and early tomorrow morning.”

Lin glanced around at the chaos inside the tent. “You have to take all of this down and clean up. The bank wants you out of here in five.”

“Five minutes?” Buffy’s voice squeaked in panic. Spike stopped smoking mid-drag, looking around at the walls, which glowed with the midday sun.

Willow put a quelling hand on Buffy’s arm. “No problem! I’ll help get everything squared away.” Lin nodded sharply and left. Officer Michaels poked her head in and blew Spike a kiss, which he caught flamboyantly and held to his heart; she left with a final giggle. A moment later, Buffy heard the patrol car pulling away from the curb.

“No problem?” Buffy hissed at Willow. “How are we going to get Spike out of here without bonfiring his vanities?”

Willow waved her hand nonchalantly. “That’s the other reason I came by. Xander called and said it took a while to get the tent set up, so Giles and I came up with a solution so you don’t have to do it over again every morning. First off, let’s get all the trash picked up.”

Spike was leaning grumpily up against the pillar ignoring them, so Buffy and Willow gathered the towels and cups and assorted trash and stuffed it all in Willow’s trash bag. (Buffy tried to pitch the greeting card as well, but Spike snatched it out of her hand with a glare and slipped it in his pocket.) Willow folded up the camp chair and slung it over her shoulder with her bag assortment, while Buffy gathered the rocks into her backpack. “Okay, now we need to walk the tent over into the alley. Spike, you take that side, it has the least sun.” Spike muttered something under his breath, but plainly felt helping with the tent was less objectionable than frying, and with the three of them it took hardly any time to reach the alley. “A few more feet... There!” They set down the tent.

“Why right here?” Buffy frowned.

“Look down,” Willow beamed proudly. Smack in the middle of the shade was a manhole cover. “Spike can take the sewers to campus! No sun at all.”

Buffy sighed. “So I guess this means I also get to ride the Sewer Express.”

Willow shrugged, her smile encouraging. “I brought you a couple of bottles of Febreze, and put a flashlight in your backpack. And as I recall, the sewers of Sunnydale are remarkably large and free of actual, you know, sewage.”

Spike knelt down to lift the manhole cover, cigarette between his teeth. “It’s the demons. There’s a few species that live off it, drink it up like gazpacho, but they’re a shy lot, tend to slither off and hide when they hear people.” He stared down into the darkness. “We just leaving the tent here?”

“Nope!” Willow’s smile got even bigger. “Giles and I worked up a spell together.” Buffy and Spike both opened their mouths to object, but Willow rushed on. “Don’t worry, Giles mixed up all the components and proofread the Latin, so we’re both pretty confident. No unwanted smoochies or anything.”

Buffy couldn’t keep her eyes from skittering to Spike at that; he grinned sardonically around his cigarette. “Well, that’s a bleedin’ relief. Wouldn’t want to go through that tale of horror again.”

With a huff, Buffy turned away. “Yes, by all means let’s avoid magically-induced Bad Kissing Decisions.” Because I obviously do pretty well at those on my own.

Willow looped the camp chair’s strap over one of the tent poles and dumped out the contents of one of her satchels on the ground. “Okay, so Spike, head on down, get out of range of the manhole so you don’t get accidental sun – oh, but not too far. The beeping would make it harder for me to cast the spell. Buffy, help me pour this powder in a circle.” Willow placed a few polished stones at regular intervals around the circle of sand, then stood in the middle. “Buffy, now you head down with Spike.”

She climbed down the ladder into the darkness, locating Spike by the glowing cherry of his cigarette and standing on the opposite side of the manhole, because while she had oddly not quite made it to the regrets and recriminations portion of the post-hot-makeout-session program, she was sure they were on their way any second now. Willow was right; it really didn’t smell too awful down here, no more awful than the Bronze late on a Saturday. From above, she heard Willow chanting something, then felt a whoosh of air. Sunbeams streamed in through the manhole, blocked a moment later by Willow’s head.

“You’re all clear!” she grinned, red hair tumbling down into her eyes.

“What happened to the tent?” Buffy craned her neck to see past her.

“It’s up on the roof of the bank, with a bit of a glamour to keep people from seeing it, and a magical tether to keep it from blowing away.” Willow’s eyes glowed with success. “I’ll come by in the morning and magic it back down for you.”

“You’re sure it worked?”

“Pretty sure. And if it didn’t, Giles said he’d buy you another set of stuff, since it was his spell. Actually, he said it with a lot more words than that, and also a lot more sarcasm, but that was the gist of it.”

“Well, okay then.”

“And you’re not feeling any, you know, UNACCEPTABLE URGES?” Willow probably intended that to be a whisper, but it echoed underground like a gunshot.

“Not at all,” Buffy lied through her teeth. Spike shifted in the shadows on the other side of the shaft of sunlight; she thought she could see his razor cheekbones twitching in a smirk.

“Okay. Um, can you come get the manhole cover back on? I don’t think I can budge it.”

Buffy climbed up the ladder, feeling Spike’s eyes on her, and dragged the manhole cover over to the edge. “Enjoy your coffee,” she smiled.

“I will!” Willow gave her a thumbs up. “I’d tell you to enjoy your walk through the sewers, but…”

“Yeah.” They both laughed at the world of meaning Buffy managed to shove into that one word, and then Willow stood up to gather the spell components while Buffy took a few steps back down, and slid the manhole cover into place, shutting herself into the dank, dark sewers with Spike.

What a fantastic plan.

\---

Spike watched the Slayer from behind as she heaved at the manhole cover, admiring the way the muscles of her back flexed under the weight. And also her ass, which still bore a sugary handprint she obviously hadn’t realized was there, like a seal of approval, or a brand of ownership. That ass is mine, he thought with grim satisfaction, blowing out a cloud of smoke that swirled possessively into the narrowing shaft of sunlight.

Spending time with the Slayer was turning out to be far more interesting than he had expected. He was no stranger to changeable moods and unpredictable actions, after more than a century with Drusilla, but there was a delicious frisson of danger in bantering with Buffy that sent thrills up his spine. She could kill him with a single blow, and actively wanted him dead, and that very fact made teasing and taunting and tempting her sweeter than wine. It was like he was dancing on the edge of a cliff, never knowing if the ground beneath his feet would crumble and send him plummeting to his doom. He loved the dance and the danger both, he wanted to bathe in them. Drown in them.

And now that he’d had a taste of the Slayer – the true Slayer, all pissed-off and demanding, not the compliant, infatuated semi-Buffy under Willow’s spell – he wanted to drown in HER.

He still hated her, hated her petty little putdowns and her righteous more-human-than-thou attitude and her infuriating tendency to punch him in the nose, not to mention the fact that she actively wanted him dead, but GOD the feel of her, strong as a demon but soft in all the right places, writhing in passion against him, was better in reality than all his wet dreams and waking fantasies combined. His imagination, fertile as it was, had never conjured up the pure truth of what she was like under his hands, the gasps and sighs, the way she managed to take control and surrender at the same time. And though in his dreams she always wanted him back, willingly submitted to his every whim, he had always known underneath that it was untrue, that it could never happen. That Buffy could never possibly want him.

But she did want him. He knew it now, had smelled and tasted and felt it, and it didn’t matter that she hated him just as much as he did her, or that she didn’t want to want him. And along the way, he had figured out just how to drive her to the edge, that dangerous cliff-edge where she might join him in his dance, or shove him into the gaping chasm.

So as she took the last few steps down the ladder into the darkness, just trickles of light coming from the edge of the cover above, he tossed his cigarette butt aside and started to sing.

“Twenty-twenty-twenty-four hours to go…”

She slapped her hand over his mouth. “No singing!” And just like that, the heat of her sweet little body was up against him, quivering in annoyance. Just where he wanted her. He grinned against her palm and planted his own hand right where it belonged. Handprint-marks-the-spot.

\---

It was like a showdown in an old Western. Her hand on his mouth, his on her ass, glaring into each other’s eyes, waiting to see who would be the first to make a move, each shifting almost imperceptibly into a better position to strike. She could almost see the cameras circling around them for a panoramic shot, except that the tunnel was too cramped and too dark for a camera to pick up more than the pale blur of faces and hands, or to circle around them in the first place, and of course Spike wouldn’t last too long out in the traditional desert sun with the tumbleweeds and the bleached cow skulls.

That was what Buffy told herself, that this was a death match, because she was still pretty much furious, but she knew she was lying to herself, because all of her little shifts were increments closer – not even subtle, but sensuous glides bringing her thighs and hips and stomach up against him, and she could tell that he knew it too, was shifting to meet her in a microcosmic dance, because his eyelids were drooping and his lips softening under her hand, until finally she was pressed right up against him and he was kissing her palm, sweet sips of kisses that made her fingers tingle until she broke the détente, sliding her hand back around into his curling damp hair so that he could kiss her lips just like that, tiny nibbles and tastes, whispers of kisses in the dark. She leaned up against the ladder, rungs hard against her spine. It felt totally right to let his hand glide around the curve of her hip, hook her knee up under the sultry weight of his duster, softly slide back up the inside of her thigh to pop the button of her slacks, slide down the zipper slow as molasses.

Spike’s lips traveled lazily to her jaw, and she tilted her head back to gaze at the pale circle of light diffusing around the manhole cover, like watching an eclipse through a pinhole camera, closed off in the dark, unable to look directly at the dangerous main event. She slid her hands down his back, under the duster and the shirts along his smooth white skin, and sighed. “Spike, what are we doing?”

“Snogging.” He feathered kisses along her collarbone, both hands skimming her pants down over her hips. Her hips tilted to help, which didn’t quite make sense to her brain, but the rest of her body was obviously on board with it.

“Oh.” She snaked her hands back over his shoulders, down his chest, creeping under the hem of his shirt to stroke his stomach. “Is that all we’re doing, because –” she gasped as his hands slid around to cup her ass, fingers sliding under the elastic of her panties, “– I’m not all too clear on some of the – oh! – the nuances of British slang.” He was being unfair again, making her quiver when he was all in-control-guy. She stroked her hand across the front of his jeans, possessively, and smiled into his hair when it made him shake.

Spike laughed roughly against her throat, fingers trembling on her hips. “No, that’s not all we’re doing. Snogging is just the kissing part.”

“Oh. Good.” Buffy couldn’t remember why that was good at the moment, but she didn’t care, because she was far, far too hot. She raised her arms. “Take off my shirt.” He peeled it off her slowly, kissing up from her stomach as the skin was exposed, draping the shirt over the top rung of the ladder. When her fingers were free of the sleeves, Buffy clutched at a rung above her head; his hands covered hers and they rolled their bodies slowly together like waves, open mouths meeting. He tasted of cigarette smoke, and she hated cigarettes, but he still tasted like heaven, she loved the taste of him, she wanted to taste him forever. Their hands fell together, tangling over his buttons until Buffy decided she had more important things to do with her hands like skinning his duster off to fall with a clunk, and then the red shirt when Spike was done unbuttoning, and then yanking at the hem of his formerly-black shirt, over his head until all his beautiful muscles were there under her hands, deliciously pressed against her. They kissed again, his hands sliding flat along her back, and then her cherry bra was loose and then gone and his hands were gentle and reverent on her still-sticky breasts, everything too slow and too fast at the same time. “Snogging good,” she managed.

Spike leaned in and did something incredibly evil with his teeth. “Do you need a vocabulary lesson, luv? I know all sorts of lovely words…” His voice was hoarse, a cool whisper on her skin.

“No. GOD no. I know words. Just… Just do. That. Do that.” She clutched at his head, helplessly kissing his curls.

“This?” His hands peeled her panties down to her thighs, gliding in for a hard possessive stroke.

She gasped. “That too.”

“Like that, do you?” She did, of course she did, but she was starting to get the feeling he was winning again, so she took his hands in hers and pushed him against the tunnel wall, stumbling a bit over her loose pants, pressing his hands to the wall beside his shoulders and diving in to nibble at the hollow of his throat. He groaned and closed his eyes.

“This is so so wrong,” Buffy whispered against his collarbone. “I don’t even like you.”

“I don’t like you either. Let me touch you.” Spike’s voice was broken and gasping, which was incredibly exciting because she knew he didn’t even need to breathe; she kissed him right over his heart, right where she was going to stake him someday. Someday when she was finally satisfied.

“Not yet.” She slid down to kiss his quivering stomach. Their clenched hands were trembling, but she couldn’t tell if it was her or him or both of them at once. “I actually really hate you.”

“I hate you, too, luv. Doesn’t mean I don’t want you. God, don’t stop.” She lingered a bit, teasing with her lips at the edge of his jeans, then nibbled her way back up his torso and buried her hands in his hair again, kissing and kissing his incredible mouth. His freed hands ran cool and smooth up and down her nearly naked body; she captured one again, kissed each finger, each of his rough hard knuckles, and slid his fingers right back between her legs where they belonged, because he was taking too damn long to get to the point, and he took her incredibly subtle hint (that’s my middle name, Buffy Subtlety Summers) and got to the point all right. She pressed her forehead against his shoulder, gasping at the intensity.

She wanted him too, she needed him, she needed this moment to go on forever, but there was something niggling at the back of her mind. Something she needed to do… She needed… she needed… 

Her head jerked up, hitting Spike in the chin. “Oh GOD, I need to get to class.”

Spike barely flinched. “No, you don’t. Stay here with me.” He set about persuading her.

Buffy wilted against him, sighing little kisses across his chest. “I do, I really do. It’s the – oh! – last class before Winter Break, and he said he’s going to give us – Oh God, right there! – a writing assignment that’s forty percent of our grade.” Her hands were staging a mutiny, working Spike’s belt loose, which she knew was a bad bad idea, and yet somehow felt very very good.

“Mmmmm. Sounds like a lot of work. Stay. Just a bit longer.” He nuzzled into her neck, sucking delicately at her pulse point.

“Oh. Okay.” He was very persuasive, what with the stroking and the sucking and that other sneaky hand of his, getting busy with other bits. “Maybe five more minutes. We can walk fast.”

“Fifteen minutes.” He applied some completely unfair pressure.

Buffy shuddered. “No, just five minutes. Then we’re going to my class. There’s – oh wow – a mocha latte with my name on it.”

He licked her ear. “Ten minutes.”

“Five.” Everything stilled, and they glared into each other’s eyes in the near-darkness.

“All right then, five.” He captured her hands, which were done with the belt buckle and about to tackle his zipper. “But none of that. When I do you, I’m going to do you proper.”

“When?” Buffy lifted her head in challenge. “You seem pretty confident that this is going to happen again.” Which she then realized might have been more effective if she weren’t mostly naked and dripping with arousal.

Spike simply smiled. “Oh, it is, luv. And WHEN it does, this is what we’re going to do.” And he set his evil hands to work, leaned in close to her ear, and started to talk, his voice deep and velvety, catching here and there as he laid out his incredibly detailed plan. She closed her eyes and let his voice and his hands melt over her like chocolate, all the naughty words and the perfectly normal words that he made naughty in context, sumptuous adjectives and wicked adverbs and so very many effective verbs, and when he finally reached the end, he bit her earlobe, gave one last hard stroke of his fingers through her impossible wetness, and she came with a soft cry, shuddering against him as he smoothed her hair and shushed her and told her she was beautiful. And Buffy believed him.

Then he briskly buttoned and zipped and covered her up until she looked as if nothing had happened, flung on his own clothes (a bit dirtier than they had been before; there might not be raw sewage, but it wasn’t exactly clean on the floor either), tucked her flashlight into her nerveless hand, and tugged her off down the tunnel at a good clip.

“Come along, Slayer. Mustn’t be tardy.”

\---

Spike knew he was without a doubt the stupidest man – alive, dead, or undead – to ever have walked the face of the earth. Here he was, drenched in the Slayer’s arousal, and instead of taking her willing body hard against the nearest wall or the floor or the bloody ceiling, making her scream out his name, he was holding her hand like they were strolling through the bloody park, after bringing her off with just his fingertips and his voice – okay, that part was pretty impressive, he deserved a bloody medal, but he should at least have let her eager little hands share some of the orgasm wealth, so that he wouldn’t be trudging along with a raging hard-on and no relief in sight. But no, he had to play it cool, give into her “five minutes” nonsense, show her what’s what, play some sort of fucking long con, so fucking clever he was that he’d bloody well outsmarted himself.

What a fucking ponce.

Hell, he was even carrying her backpack (which was surprisingly heavy – what did she have in there, rocks?) like a fucking manservant. A non-fucking manservant. A eunuch manservant. Bloody Alfred probably got more tail than he did, what with the suit and the access to the Batmobile.

And even though his brain was full of Things He Wanted to Do with a Horny Slayer, his mouth just kept on with the business of getting her to her buggering class.

“What building do we need, luv?” when he was thinking about which of the walls they were trudging past would provide the best leverage for a good hard fuck, her strong tan legs wrapped tight around his waist.

“Stevens, eh? There’s a sewer entrance right in the basement. Convenient, that.” when he determined that an outthrust culvert was just the right height for sliding into the Slayer from behind, and wouldn’t she look delicious laid out on his duster begging for more?

“We’ll have to watch that second floor hallway, pet. It’s all windows. Have to take the back stairs.” when he pictured her dropping to her knees right there in the middle of the tunnel and sliding her cherry-red lips down the length of his cock. Hell, she’d probably never even done that before, and he still knew, KNEW it would be the Best Blowjob Ever, because it would be her.

And then they were there at the grate that led to the basement of Stevens Hall, and he was still rock-hard, and she was saying something about a mocha latte, and looking at her watch with a frown.

He was an idiot, a bloody buggering idiot, and he didn’t deserve to be called the Big Bad.

Then Buffy muttered, “We still have a few minutes,” and dropped the flashlight and kissed him hard, and he dropped her backpack on his foot (which hurt) and fell back against the wall and kissed her back, and then her hands were on his belt and sliding into his jeans and all he could think was God, yes.

\---

Buffy used an entire bottle of Febreze in a probably-hopeless attempt to make sure she didn’t have to sit in Philosophy class smelling like either a sewer or a bordello. Or a sewer bordello for that matter. She was pretty sure she had gotten rid of the sewer smell, but it seemed impossible at this moment that anyone could come within ten feet of her, and not immediately know all the naughty things she had been doing, and the naughtier things she was still thinking.

Spike had replaced the grate and was lighting a cigarette. His hands had the faintest tremor, and she couldn’t help but smile smugly. I did that, with my own two hands. Sure showed him.

It wasn’t exactly what she had wanted to do, because she really was determined to make it to class on time and that ruled out both the scenario he had come up with and all the intriguing variations she had imagined on their surreal underground stroll, but she had finally decided that she was absolutely not going to go to class with her brain full of triple-X fantasies but a big old question mark obscuring certain important details. Now she knew. (Her smartass brain chimed in with and knowing is half the battle!) Knew the smooth length of him, the curves and contours; knew the timbre of his voice as he groaned and cursed and pleaded for more, the harsh gasp he made when he came wet and cold in her hand, the feverish way he kissed her afterwards, tender and unashamed.

It made her hungry to know more.

But now was the time for other knowledge, academic knowledge, academic knowledge that her mom was paying a huge amount of tuition for, and she also felt the need to prove to herself that she had some actual self-control, if just a tiny smidgen, so she tossed the empty Febreze bottle in the trash, made Spike put out his cigarette, and headed up the stairs.

As promised, Willow was waiting outside the lecture hall with a huge mocha latte and a huger grin. “You made it! I was worried you got waylaid by something nasty.” She took in their disheveled appearance. “Which it looks like you did, but I guess you came out ok?”

“Yeah, nothing I couldn’t handle.” The double entendre hit her right after she said it; she quickly drank some of her mocha latte to cover. “So, good time at coffee? Am I looking at half of a power couple?”

Willow shrugged noncommittally. “It was a good time. Not a couple yet though. I like to take things slow.”

As opposed to those of us who like to dive right off the cliffs of temptation. “Well, you know I’m rooting for you, whatever you decide you want to do.” Spike was clearly bored with their conversation (being about neither sex nor him) and was slouched against the wall next to the lecture hall door.

“I know. You’re the best friend ever.” Willow gave her a brief hug. Buffy held her breath, waiting for Willow to unmask her as a Super Slut, but apparently the Febreze had done its job. Best invention ever. “Anyhow, I have class coming up in Montgomery, and yours is about to start. Talk to you later?”

“Sure!” Another hug, and Willow was off down the hall. Buffy turned to Spike, arms folded.

“You heard her,” Spike said mock-seriously. “Better toddle off to lecture, fill your head with the fruits of Western Civilization.” He toyed with his silver lighter, flipping it open and closed.

“Spike, I need you to stay right here. And no smoking. It’s not allowed.” She started to turn away, then turned back. “Also no singing.”

“An’ what am I supposed to do then while you’re off improvin’ your mind?”

“I don’t know. Read a book?”

“Don’t have a book.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Out of Scotch, too.”

Students were streaming into the classroom; Buffy huffed impatiently. “You’ll just have to figure something out. I’m going.” She grabbed her backpack, and gave Spike a final warning look. “Stay right here!”

He leaned in and growled into her ear, “By the way, loved the cherries. Could really sink my teeth into those.” He stroked her hip hopefully.

She quivered, then shook herself and smacked him on the shoulder. “No. No teeth. I am going to class and learning things, and you are sitting right here until I’m done.”

“Whatever, luv.” He sullenly leaned back against the wall. Buffy glared at him for a moment longer, then nodded her head decisively and headed into the classroom, hoping against hope that for once in his unlife Spike would actually behave.

But just in case, she started thinking up a contingency plan.

\---

God, he was BORED.

Watching people walk by gave him a few minutes of weak entertainment, but it didn’t take long for the sad truth to become clear: University students were just as pretentious, callow, and dull as they had been more than a century ago, when he had been one of them. (He would even admit to himself that he had been the most boring of the lot. One of the passersby looked like he could be William 2.0; he silently apologized for not being able to give him the same second chance he had been given. Bloody chip, not just ruining his unlife but denying this poor sap a glorious unlife of his own.)

There hadn’t been women at Cambridge in his day, of course, and the coeds in their infinite variety, all shapes and sizes and colors and styles, were certainly worth watching, but it just wasn’t the same as it used to be, back when he could bite them. Made his favorite party game of who-to-bite-first feel all hollow, especially after he’d ranked the first fifty to pass by. Spike was attracting a bit of interest (which was natural, because he was a hell of a lot more interesting than any other man in this hallway), but even the saucy plump goth girl with the intriguing piercings and the frankly sexual look on her face as she eyed him up and down was just not catching his attention. (And it wasn’t for lack of trying; she wandered by three times in ten minutes and then bummed a cigarette before she gave up.) He could tell that she would be absolutely delicious to sink in to, in every possible sense, and there was even a convenient closet right across the hall (he knew, because on her third pass she had opened the door wide, looked inside, and looked at him pointedly before wandering on), but he just… didn’t want to.

What was up with that?

It wasn’t like he wasn’t ready to go again; he had been hard again before they even made it out of the basement, watching Buffy’s round, Spike-branded bottom twitch as she preceded him up the stairs, and every so often another wave of lust would wash over him as flashes of memory popped back into his brain. (He suspected a particularly ill-timed one had contributed to Saucy Goth’s persistence.) And now, wondering about why he didn’t want to fuck any of the tasty morsels parading down the hallway like conveyor-belt sushi was just making him think more about Buffy, Yummy Sushi Buffy, and it pissed him off, how easily that brought his erection back, and that was it, he wasn’t going to just sit here anymore. He lunged to his feet and started to pace.

\---

Buffy was really trying to pay attention in class. She was trying so hard. But as soon as she got into a good rhythm with the note-taking, the naughty part of her mind kept jumping into her zen with mmm, how about those teeth, huh? and that culvert was just the right height for you-know-what, you know? and I bet Giles wouldn’t even notice if you just helped yourself to that jar of maraschino cherries, amirite? and her pen would just wander off in the middle of a sentence, so her first page of notes looked more like philosophy-themed Mad Libs than a coherent study guide. It didn’t help that whatever theory she was supposed to be learning about was all about people in a cave, which was really close to people in a sewer tunnel, flashlight on the ground casting lewd shadows on the wall, and she was pretty sure that wasn’t what the professor had in mind.

But she persevered, because she had SELF-CONTROL even if she had seriously questionable taste in men, and she was totally completely engrossed in what’s-his-name the famous philosopher, who was really so much more interesting than Spike half-naked in a sewer, and she wondered what he tasted like – Spike, not the famous philosopher – because she had heard guys really liked that sort of thing, and while it had always seemed kind of awkward and gross, she had once thought that about tongues too and BOY had Spike changed her mind…

She stared down at another line of not-notes and realized that she had no clue what the words she had managed to get down even meant, and wanted to cry.

She couldn’t even lie to herself that it was because Professor Peterson was boring, because he really wasn’t. He was one of those professors who made bad jokes and told funny stories about the Seventies and had a wacky beard and an unrepentant bald head and sometimes wore board shorts to class. It really wasn’t his fault. It was all Spike’s fault. Spike and all his evilness. Especially that one thing he did, with his teeth and his tongue and his hand and his other hand all at the same time, that was really REALLY evil, and later on she was going to hit him until he did it again.

Focus, Buffy.

And she was focusing, she really was, she had even gotten down the name of the famous philosopher (Plato, five letters – she wrote it down quickly just in case) when the anklet went off.

BEEP! …BEEP!

She was halfway to her feet when the beeping stopped after just two, just far enough that everyone in the lecture hall knew that the beeping was coming from her, all staring at her. “Sorry,” she smiled awkwardly, and sank back down.

Thirty seconds later, BEEP! …BEEP! – again cut off after just two. Professor Peterson set down his chalk and looked at her steadily. Buffy very industriously continued to write down notes.

Thirty more seconds. BEEP! …BEEP!

Buffy shot to her feet, notebook in hand. “Would you excuse me for just a moment?”

Professor Peterson just raised his eyebrows.

Buffy quickly made her escape.

\---

She found Spike pacing up and down the hallway, duster swirling around his calves, passing students giving him a wide berth. She stomped up to him and his eyes lit up. “Class over? Brilliant! Let’s go.” He grabbed her hand.

She whacked him with her notebook. “No, class is NOT over. You keep setting off the stupid anklets. What part of ‘stay right here’ did you not understand?”

He stuck out his jaw. “I understood it fine. Just bored.” He glanced over at the door next to them, marked ‘Staff Only.’ “Nothing to do but pace.”

“Well, my professor is going to fail me on principle if you keep setting off the Stupid Alarm.”

“No, really, I think I’ve almost got it now. I can get just about to that water fountain over there – have to be careful with the turn – and then at the other end, I need to turn back right before that ceiling tile with the piece missing…”

“NO PACING. No smoking, no drinking, no singing, and no pacing.”

Spike got right up in her face, jaw clenched. “I. AM. BORED.”

She met his glare. “I. DON’T. CARE.”

Then his hand fumbled for the doorknob beside them, and they were tumbling into darkness, and then the door was shut and she was up against it and they were kissing, hard and furious. Faint whistles and catcalls sounded from the other side of the door, reminding Buffy that this was also a pretty crappy place to get busy, and she pulled away with a gasp, pressing her forehead to his chin. He kissed the top of her head.

“I have to get back to class,” she whispered.

“I want to do you right here,” Spike countered.

“No. Not…” her voice dropped even lower. “Not here.” She felt her face blazing at the tacit admission in those two words.

Spike refused to let it go. He pulled her right up against his erection. “Where, luv?”

“Not here, and not now.” She placed her hands on his chest. “Later. I have to get back to class.”

Spike let her go, growling in disgust. “An’ what, I stay here an’ jack off? I’m BORED, pet.”

Buffy sighed. There was only one solution she could think of. “You’ll just have to come to class with me.”

“Oh, HELL no.”

“Look, I can’t have you wandering off, and we can’t stay here in the closet.” A knock on the door reminded them that they were Not Alone. “I’ll give you my notebook. You can… draw pictures or something.” It’s not like I’m taking usable notes anyhow.

Spike was silent for a long moment. “All right,” he finally muttered. “I’ll come with you to class.” Then he pressed Buffy up against the door again. “But you have to answer my question first.”

“Question?” Buffy could barely remember her own name with his body pressed up against her like that.

“WHERE?” He nibbled on her neck. There was another knock on the door, followed by some low laughter.

Buffy sighed. “Tonight, after patrol. We’ll… we’ll find a place.” 

Spike released her abruptly. “All right, then. Notebook.”

She handed it over. He tucked it in the pocket of his duster. “Ready?” she asked, pulling her shoulders back

“Ready, luv.”

They opened the door and stepped out.

\---

Buffy kept her head high and her face proud, even as the students gathered in the hall applauded and Spike acknowledged their audience with a wave and a little bow. Professor Peterson didn’t stop talking as she reentered the lecture hall and headed towards her seat, dragging Spike behind her, but watched their progress with a gleam of interest in his eye. Buffy shoved Spike in to sit first (claiming the aisle seat), pulled another notebook out of her backpack (Psychology, but she would deal with that later) and grudgingly handed him a pencil. He set about industriously sketching, while she found a blank page and started taking down notes from the blackboard.

She was really starting to get a handle on this Plato guy when she realized Spike had been quiet for an awfully long time, which could not possibly be good. A quick glance at his face showed that he was totally absorbed in his drawing, frowning in concentration as he smudged at something with his thumb, then relaxing again into a smug little smirk. What the hell was he drawing? Pretending to be writing, she carefully extended her neck until she could see the page he was drawing on.

Oh. She recognized that culvert. It looked a little different, though, with a swath of leather draped across it, and a naked body on top of that. She hadn’t ever actually seen a naked woman from that angle before (because she’d only ever really looked at herself, and it would have required a month of yoga classes and an arsenal of mirrors to see herself quite like that) – and was that really what ladyparts looked like from behind? Wow. Who’da thunk it.

There were other sketches on the page, naked breasts and arched backs and pouting lips and swaths of blonde hair, and – oh, God, that was her, they were all her, even the one on the culvert (seriously, was he reading her mind?) and she couldn’t stop herself from gasping.

Spike chuckled quietly and tilted the page towards her. “Like what you see, luv?” he whispered. A few heads turned towards them, and she gave him a warning look, then wrote on her own notebook: WHAT. THE. HELL.

Spike rolled his eyes and wrote back, Just taking notes. A few ideas for later. His handwriting was a sprawl of cursive, like he used to have nice penmanship but hadn’t cared for a long time. He returned his pencil to the culvert sketch, lovingly retracing the curve of the lush buttocks. HER lush buttocks. He cast her a sidelong look, then turned his pencil – oh God! – to the lush curves and folds between them, long slow strokes as if the pencil were his fingers…

STOP IT! she wrote on her notes.

He pursed his lips in a judicious pout, then set down his pencil.

Buffy breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to her Plato.

Spike turned back a page in the notebook.

Don’t look don’t look don’t look, she chanted inwardly, but of course she looked, and there she was, more of her, half-naked against a ladder, head thrown back, and completely naked in a camp chair with a donut in her hand and her legs mid-cross, and sitting naked on a tombstone, a suspiciously-shaped stake in her hand. And more, of just her face, laughing and smiling and angry and deadly, all the moods of Buffy laid out in quick, confident pencil strokes and rough smudges of shading.

Spike picked up his pencil again, and drew an arrow to a particularly lavish one, Buffy naked and dirty and wrapped in battle with a huge snakelike demon. I quite like this one, he wrote. Using consummate V’s really gets across the sense of majesty. 

Then when she had no response to that, he wrote something underneath that. Double underlined it.

TONIGHT.

Then he turned to a blank page, and started another sketch.

\---

Class was finally over, and Buffy pointedly snatched Spike’s pencil and notebook away from him and stuffed them in her backpack before any of the other students could see his (remarkably detailed) rendering of Buffy in Boots. She was so ready to make her escape, when Professor Peterson’s voice came up from the lectern.

“Miss Summers, could you please come speak to me for a moment?”

Dammit.

She reluctantly trudged down the stairs against the flow of students (who eyed her with no small amount of mirth), Spike trailing amiably along in her wake. Peterson made her wait as he gathered up his lecture notes and erased the board, which was okay by her because it meant the lecture hall was empty by the time he turned back to her.

“So. Miss Summers,” he finally began. “Might I be informed as to why you have an alarm clock strapped to your ankle? And an assistant note-taker?” He didn’t look especially angry, just curious, so Buffy launched into her cover story.

“It’s actually, um, a project for my Criminal Justice class.” Spike crossed behind her to lean up against the blackboard, his face amused. “See, we’re talking about the difficulties parole officers face in the performance of their duties, so we’ve each been assigned, um, a dangerous criminal to monitor.”

“So I assume then this gentleman is your… dangerous criminal.”

“That I am,” Spike interjected. “Bad to the bone, danger personified, all that.” Buffy glared at him. “Except of course, not really,” he amended. “That would be far, far too unsafe for the many fine students of U.C. Sunnydale.” 

“He’s in the theater department,” Buffy rushed on. “He gets extra credit for making things hard on me.”

“Ah.” Professor Peterson smiled at that. “He should be getting an ‘A’ then, from what I’ve seen.”

“Yep.” ‘A’ for ‘annoying,’ Buffy thought grouchily.

“And the noise?”

Buffy pulled up her pants leg to show off the anklet. “They’re just, you know, cheap props, but they do go off if we get too far apart.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m really, really sorry we interrupted your lecture. I promise it won’t happen again.”

“Hmmm.” Peterson cast her a shrewd look. “That’s quite a promise to make. And technically, I’m not supposed to have students in the classroom who aren’t registered for the class. Tuition and all that.”

“Oh, I’ve already learned all of this,” Spike said nonchalantly. “Plato’s Theory of Forms, Aristotle, all that lot. Had a good classical education, I did.”

“Really. So, what’s your opinion of, say, Immanuel Kant?” Peterson’s eyes gleamed.

Spike grinned back. “A real pissant, who was very rarely stable.”

And then Buffy knew that she had died and gone to Hell, that had to be it, because suddenly her pretty-cool Philosophy professor and the annoying vampire she was bound to by law (and had promised to have sex with later that night, don’t forget that, what had she been thinking?) looked at each other with huge grins and started singing.

Together.

A song about philosophers. And drinking.

WHAT. THE. HELL.

Buffy sank into the nearest seat and waited for the nice young men in their clean white coats to come and take her away. HA-HA.

\---

Despite the really scary male bonding thing, it was still daylight when Buffy finally managed to drag Spike out of the lecture hall, so they headed back down to the basement. Spike seemed inclined to linger nostalgically just inside the grating, but the sight of Spike and Professor Peterson merrily singing together had put paid to the last vestiges of her sexual arousal, at least for the moment, so she grabbed him by the collar and made him show her the way back to Giles’s apartment. By the time they reached the end of their underground journey, Buffy was back to being pissed off at him and also wanting him desperately, so she made him run with his duster over his head the last twenty feet of sunlight, until they were safe inside with dry, snarky Giles and she could abandon him to claim the shower first. After scrubbing herself thoroughly, she stood under the hot water, running through the bizarre events of the day in her head.

Part of her wanted to find some way to make excuses for herself, brush away all the snogging and the more-than-snogging and the downright-shameless-making-out as Not Really Real Buffy, because they didn’t fit in with the image she had of herself, good and pure and… well, maybe not-so-pure but pure-hearted, the kind of girl who would only make love to a man she loved. (Though had she really LOVED Parker? She wasn’t totally sure there either.) The kind of girl who made all the right decisions, and everybody loved her, a perfect princess in a perfect tower, and one day she would get to live happily ever after with her perfect prince. That was how Angel saw her, her mom, maybe even Xander; that was how she wanted to see herself.

Except she knew deep down that wasn’t her, that Perfect Buffy. She made bad decisions, not just bad in the sense of being wrong, but selfish and cruel and awful. She kept terrible secrets, made selfish choices, said hurtful things, not all the time or even most of the time, but often enough that she knew those were part of Really Real Buffy too, even though she still came down on the side of Mostly Good. And no, she hadn’t been in love with Parker, not the way she knew she could love; she had liked him and been charmed by him, and wanted more than anything to get on with the happily-ever-after with her perfect prince – and, she admitted to herself, she had wanted to have sex again, because even with all the horror that had followed her one time with Angel, sex itself was really awesome, and after more than a year of self-recriminations and unhappy celibacy, she had been ready to feel good again. Under the cleansing spray of the shower, alone with her thoughts, she could even admit that it had felt good, that sex with creepazoid Parker had been a fun time, and if he hadn’t been a complete two-timing bastard she would have had more fun sex with him and almost certainly liked it, even though she now knew he had no clue how to use his tongue.

This was hard to wrap her brain around, that Really Real Buffy didn’t need love to enjoy sex, but the more she tasted it in her mind, the more it felt like Truth. Because she was so not in love with Spike, not the tiniest bit, but she could not deny that she had wanted every naughty thing he had done to her today, wanted and demanded and practically begged for, and that she still wanted more, all the things he had murmured in her ear and all the things she had thought up on her own, and all the things neither of them had thought of yet but who knew when inspiration might strike? She was going to go out for patrol with Spike tonight, and then they were going to have sex, and she was going to love every second of it, because she was a Sex Goddess. She didn’t even feel guilty about it. Well, she felt guilty, but mostly she felt guilty about not feeling guilty, because she was pretty sure that most of the people around her wouldn’t approve.

And she couldn’t blame them, really. Sex with Spike was not a wise decision, or a safe decision, though the chip in Spike’s head kept it from being deadly. But this was the Really Real Buffy, the Buffy that liked killing things, and wasn’t always wise and safe, and didn’t mind getting her hands and sometimes her whole body dirty, and could be a real bitch sometimes, and liked sex, and wanted Spike even though (and maybe a little bit because) he wanted her dead. She didn’t have a happily-ever-after waiting for her on the other side of the rainbow; she had an agonizing premature death, possibly on the other side of tonight, and the small consolation when she died that she had saved the world a lot. So Perfect Buffy could just go suck it.

She wanted Spike, and Spike wanted her, and she was going to let him unleash his wicked, evil imagination on her body tonight, and unleash a little Sex Goddess wickedness of her own while she was at it. And she was absolutely not going to feel guilty, because this was her Truth. This was Buffy.

Also, she was totally going to steal Giles’s maraschino cherries.

\---

When she came out of the bathroom, scrubbed clean and dressed in fresh clothes, Spike was standing in the hallway, trying and utterly failing to look casual, a stack of clean clothes on his arm. She could hear Giles banging pans in the kitchen, just around the corner.

“Done with the shower, Slayer?” Spike said loudly, then leaned in close. “Can’t wait to get you dirty again,” he growled in a low voice, nipping at her ear. His face was an odd mix of anticipation and uncertainty, clearly expecting Buffy to reject him now that she’d had time to think it over.

“All yours, Spike. I made sure to use up all the hot water.” Buffy replied for Giles’s benefit, ducking in shyly to kiss the hollow of Spike’s throat, because big grand I-Am-A-Sex-Goddess revelations were all very well and good in the privacy of the shower, but putting them into practice was still new and scary for her.

He sighed in relief and tilted her chin up for a quick, hard kiss. She smiled shakily. “Go get clean,” she whispered. “I, uh… I have plans. For you. And, um, clean is good. For my plans.”

“Is it indeed.” He raised his voice again. “Oh, right, Slayer. Not enough I can’t fight any more, you have to sentence me to cold showers. Oh, what indignities will you subject me to next?”

She punched him in the arm. “Quit overacting. Giles is old and British, not stupid.”

“Right.” He looked her up and down hungrily. “How soon can we leave?”

“After I’ve had something to eat, and it’s dark. And I’m still going to do a full patrol, buster.” She poked a finger into his chest, then splayed out her hand into a caress, because damn. “Well, most of a full patrol. Maybe a half-patrol.”

“I’m counting on it, luv.” Spike grinned. “Watchin’ you fight’s almost as good as brawling m’self.”

“Okay then.” Buffy felt oddly reluctant to end the conversation, but she never had eaten that sandwich, which she thought she had dropped somewhere in the sewer, so she really needed to go eat. She wound a finger into one of his belt loops. “Go shower.”

“Yeah. Right.” They both watched her finger twirling in the belt loop, tugging him closer. Finally, he cleared his throat. “You go eat.”

“Yeah.” She suddenly lunged up and kissed him again, long and hot and wet, because she was a Sex Goddess, and he kissed her back in a way that said yes, she bloody well was a Sex Goddess, and then she shoved him into the bathroom and hurried into the living room, because even Sex Goddesses needed to eat dinner if they wanted to have energy for Sex Goddessing.

Giles was still in the kitchen, nose in a small leather book as he stirred something on the stove. It smelled delicious, and Buffy’s stomach growled. Giles jumped and almost dropped the book. “Oh. Buffy. Dinner’s almost ready.”

She felt a sudden rush of affection for him, possibly connected to the fact that she was about to do something that would break his poor old Watcherly heart. “You didn’t have to cook for me, Giles. I would have eaten cold pizza.”

“Yes, well, I myself would prefer not to. It’s bad enough that we already eat that rubbish three times a week. As an ostensibly grown man, I occasionally like to eat like an adult instead of an overgrown college student.” He carefully marked his pace in the book with a bookmark, then set it aside. “I’m sorry to say, I haven’t yet made any progress on your, er, problems.”

Buffy shrugged. “We’ll get there. I have faith in you. That spell you and Willow cooked up for the tent worked like gangbusters.” She opened up the fridge and pulled out a diet soda, palming the jar of maraschino cherries while she was at it.

“Gangbusters. Of course.” Giles removed his glasses. “I must say, you seem awfully blasé about the entire Spike situation this evening.”

“I’m not blasé,” Buffy protested. “I’m all sorts of upset. Just, you know, I need to save some of my fighting energy for the demons. Wednesday’s a big night for patrol. Lotsa demons. Ooh, and vamps too. Pretty sure statistically more vamps rise on Wednesdays than any other night. Plus, I’m really tired. Totally exhausted.” She supposed she was babbling a bit, but Giles didn’t seem to notice. Did that mean she babbled all the time? Oh, crap, the shower wasn’t running any more. That was fast. She meandered over to the coatrack and slipped the jar of cherries into her coat pocket. The red one tonight. Spike liked red.

“Well, don’t stay out too late then. Patrol is important, but you mustn’t wear yourself out.” Giles dished up a bowl of the stew or whatever he had made and set it on the counter for her; she pulled up a stool and dug in. “Shall I wait up for you?”

“Oh. No.” Buffy mumbled around a huge mouthful of food. “You don’t need to do that.” Please, please don’t stay up for my Walk of Shame.

Spike rounded the corner from the bathroom then, damp and a little wild-eyed. Buffy shoveled the last bits of stew in her mouth, dropped her spoon with a clatter, and jumped to her feet. “Well, looks like time to slay! See ya, Giles!” She snatched up her red coat. “Coming, Spike?” She challenged him with her eyes.

He grinned recklessly, throwing on his duster. “Oh, I’m coming, all right.”

They raced off into the night.

\---

Buffy ran ahead of him for nearly a mile, laughing, red coat flashing like a toreador’s cape in front of his eyes. He caught her just inside the entrance to the first cemetery on her agenda, snagging her coat and whirling her around and against the gate’s tall stone pillar. He winced slightly as his chip fired off, just a twinge for the roughness, lips barely brushing hers as he spoke. “Trying to escape, luv?”

She caught his lower lip between her teeth. “I hear you love the hunt.” Her breath was hot on his mouth, little gasping pants. He tasted her then, the tiniest breath of a kiss, and she laughed again. “Patrol first.”

He released her reluctantly and trailed behind her as she started her rounds of the newest graves and the more spacious mausoleums, regretfully noting that following the Slayer around was much less exciting when he was sober and she wasn’t actually killing anything. On the bright side, a slow night might mean ending patrol early and getting on with the shagging – but on the other hand, she might just keep on going until she found something, dragging things out even longer, and besides he rather fancied how a good night of killing got her hot and sweaty and aggravated. Rather like him, back when he could kill, though less with the hot and sweaty and more with the randy and inspired.

But he didn’t have to wait long after all; one of the mausoleums housed a motley gang of vampires, some still brushing off fresh grave dirt. Buffy lunged in with a feral grin and staked two before they knew what was happening, sending a third crashing over a crypt with a wicked back kick. Spike leaned against the doorframe, lighting a cigarette, and admired the mayhem with a touch of wistfulness. Slayer didn’t need help, of course – she was in her element, whirling and ducking and quipping a mile a minute, but he couldn’t help wishing he was there with her, in the thick of the fight. She was glorious. She was aware of him watching, too – she cast him a hot look through the clouds of dust, and when she pummeled her opponent with an especially flashy cartwheel, staking him with a dramatic flourish, he got the feeling she was showing off. Spike definitely approved.

But then the fellow she had sent behind the crypt leaped out at her, sending her crashing to the ground, and in the resulting struggle, she fumbled and dropped her stake, and a moment later she had her arms twisted behind her back, the vampire leering down at her neck.

Spike could feel a growl building at the back of his throat, because that was HIS neck, the Slayer was HIS to kill, eventually, after he’d had his fill of her in other ways, which in fact he’d barely even started on, and he and the Slayer had an APPOINTMENT, they did, and he was about to lunge forward and rip the bugger off the Slayer, chip be damned, when the Slayer smiled at him, a smile of heat and promise and sheer lust, and he stopped in his tracks. Buffy winked at him, gave a prodigious twist, and sent the vampire flying straight at him.

“Catch, Spike!”

He supposed she wanted him to restrain the fool, hold him still while she staked him, so that he would feel like he was part of the fight even though he couldn’t actually do the killing himself, and then they could kiss tenderly across the cloud of dust, which was such a sweet gesture he might have been moved to tears…

…IF he was a bleeding PONCE, which he bloody well wasn’t, he was the fucking BIG BAD, and so he caught the bastard all right, caught him by the head, and twisted it fast and hard, ripping it right off his shoulders as fast as he could so as to get the job done before the pain hit…

…And then he was standing there as the head crumbled to dust in his hands, waiting and waiting and waiting for the pain to kick in, and it kept not kicking in and not kicking in, and he looked at Buffy, and she looked at him with big eyes, and his lips stretched wide in a grin because he felt FUCKING FANTASTIC…

…And then he was on the ground, and Buffy was sitting on his stomach, her stake digging into his chest, face grim, and he laughed up at her, because of course she didn’t understand, she didn’t know how it felt to be a shadow, to have her very self ripped away from her, and he wanted her so much in that very moment, he pulled her face down for a kiss and kissed her and kissed her until she dropped the stake and kissed him back, rubbing her body all over him until he rolled over on top of her, pressing her hands gently into the heaps of vampire dust on the ground, and he saw she was crying. He sipped away her tears.

“What’s wrong, luv?” he purred.

She glared up at him. “Your chip’s not working. I have to kill you.”

He laughed again, laughed hard enough to bring tears to his eyes, and she shoved him off, fumbling on the ground for her stake. “It’s not funny! I have to kill you before you kill anyone else!” He rolled onto his back, covering his eyes with his arm, still laughing. He felt her collapse on her knees next to him, shaking, and he rolled to his side, propping his head up with his hand.

“Chip’s still working, luv,” he said conversationally. “Zapped me not half an hour ago, just for playing a little rough at the gate.”

She sniffed. “But you just…”

“Vampires aren’t human any more. Not once the demon sets up shop.” He traced a finger along her thigh. “I’m guessing the chip doesn’t give a buggering fuck how many demons I rip to pieces. Still can’t do a damn thing to humans, I’d wager, even the ones that could do with a bit o’ killing.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” She glared at him.

“Pet, you’ve known me for years now, yeah? In all the time you’ve known me, have I ever once lied that you haven’t seen through right away?”

That took the wind out of her sails; she quirked a watery smile at him. “I didn’t think you knew what a terrible liar you were.”

“Well, can’t let on that I know, can I? Mustn’t tarnish the image.” He rolled closer to her, sliding his hand smoothly to her inner thigh. “Much prefer the direct approach in any case.” He stroked upwards, and she gasped harshly. Oh, yes. Very fond of the direct approach indeed. “Been a long day, hasn’t it, luv? You’re all tense. Come along.” He rolled to his feet and held out his hand; she clasped it and he pulled her to her feet, tenderly stroking her hair back from her face. “Now,” he grinned brilliantly, “Let’s go KILL something!”

\---

They ran, sometimes holding hands, sometimes chasing one another, dodging in and out of headstones and shrubberies and marble statuary. A newborn vampire dragged himself from his grave; they danced around it, a waltz of blows and kicks, until Spike kicked him right into Buffy’s stake, and they met in the middle for a searing kiss, hands stroking urgently. Another vampire – no, two – came at them from a copse of trees; Buffy tossed Spike her axe and he laid into the first, while she pummeled and taunted and finally staked the second, and then tackled Spike and rolled with him on the ground, kissing and kissing until they heard a cry in the distance, and they were off again, the light of battle in their eyes.

At the far end of the cemetery, in front of a graceful crypt with a stained-glass door, they found a pack of demons, maybe a dozen, tall and bulky, with twisting horns and a coating of slime that glowed blue in the moonlight, apparently preparing to sacrifice a bug-eyed college boy; Buffy and Spike exchanged grins, because this was THE PLACE, they both knew, and they charged into battle side by side. It wasn’t easy, they knew it wouldn’t be, which made it oh so much better. One of the demons tossed Buffy yards into a headstone that crumbled at the impact; she shook herself and jumped back into the fray, pulling a pair of silver daggers out of her boots. Spike flung another demon into a statue that shattered; the demon screamed in agony, impaled on a fragment, and began to dissolve. One by one they took down the demons, which turned to goo and sank into the earth, leaving only patches of scorched grass; at the altar they faced the final demon, the leader, with horns branching like an elk, raising his stone knife for the sacrificial blow, and Spike slashed with the axe and Buffy sliced with her knives, and he was dissolving into the ground with his brethren. Buffy was humming with energy, but she gently cut loose the sacrifice, admonishing him to run home fast and stay out of cemeteries in the future, because duh, Sunnydale, and before he was out of sight Spike had her by the waist and was lifting her to the altar, settling between her thighs and burying his face in her chest, laughing. She wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him up for a kiss, a long one, a kiss of promises fulfilled, because now they were here, and it was time, and it was going to be absolutely PERFECT.

And then a siren sounded, and red and blue lights danced across their faces, and Buffy was blinking into the harsh spotlight aimed at them from the top of the patrol car on the other side of the fence, swinging around to illuminate the shattered stone and the blackened grass and the two of them, clutching at each other atop a sacrificial altar, and then a vaguely policeman-shaped shadow approached them with a flashlight, and sighed, and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

“You are under arrest,” Office Kemp said triumphantly. And smiled.

 

End Chapter 5

 

Chapter 5 Author’s Notes:

Professor Peterson is named after a (non-philosophy) professor of mine and modeled after a (non-professor) friend of mine.

I always figured Spike was a reasonably good draftsman when he wanted to be – despite the crude Angel-face-on-the-punching-bag – because of the sketches in his Buffy shrine (presumably done by him) and because he was a gentleman in a time when draftsmanship was considered a necessary upper-class skill. And duh, of course if Spike can draw at all, he can draw naked women.

Gratuitous quotes (or near-quotes) from: G.I. Joe (again), homestarrunner.com (a bit anachronistic, as Trogdor dates to 2003, but obviously, like Billy Idol, Strong Bad stole from Spike), Monty Python’s Flying Circus, and Dr. Demento favorite “They’re Coming to Take Me Away”

This chapter ended up a lot smuttier than planned. Spike and Buffy just Will Not Behave. The rascals. I now have to rewrite half the stuff I had written for later chapters. (Particularly the part where I have a note “Should I save the smut for later?” because obviously that ship has sailed.)


	6. Anticipation

Buffy had to give Spike full points for tenacity; despite the flashing lights, and the jangling handcuffs, and the smarmy policeman standing just a few yards behind him, he just pulled Buffy’s legs higher around his waist and continued kissing her neck. She then awarded him a perfect 10 in the Kissing Buffy’s Neck event, because a second later she also did not care a bit about the flashing lights and the jangling handcuffs and the smarmy policeman and was back to anticipating Spike sticking his landing. So to speak. Not that she could speak at the moment.

The policeman cleared his throat. “Excuse me, I said you’re under arrest. Ms. Summers. Mr. Spike.”

Spike slid his hands up inside the back of Buffy’s red coat. “Sod off, mate. I’m havin’ a moment with my lady.” Buffy attempted an apologetic smile over his shoulder, but Spike’s hands had continued their religious pilgrimage to all her Holy Places and holy crap that was a moment, all right, and she tilted her head back and agreed that sodding off needed to happen now. Whatever that meant. Wasn’t sod dirt?

“Nelson, I thought you were going to make the arrest?” Another shadow joined the first. Spike’s mouth traveled to Buffy’s ear; he was swearing, a muttered stream of profanity that conveniently distracted her from the lights and the fact that now TWO policemen were apparently watching Spike grind against her. At least the duster kept them from seeing her hands on his ass encouraging said grinding. She whispered a few naughty words of her own, loving the way Spike quivered at each syllable.

The first policeman sighed. “So did I.” There were a few moments of silence, which Buffy feverishly hoped was the Sound of Going Away, because then she and Spike could get on with the naked-in-the-moonlight part that she had been looking forward to all day, or possibly all her life.

“Should we just cuff ‘em?” The voice sounded dubious.

“Probably. Can you get at their hands?”

“Uh… probably not without risking a lawsuit.”

More silence. Or at least Police Silence, because Buffy knew she was making all sorts of interesting Sex Goddess noises. She wondered hazily if making more noise, like a good loud moan, would finally earn them some privacy. She was willing to give it a try.

Then footsteps crunched tentatively closer, through the blackened grass, and she reflexively wrapped her arms around Spike in a hug. He wrapped his arms right back, burying his head against her shoulder. He was gasping in rhythm with her.

“They’re not going to go away,” Buffy sighed miserably.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Spike growled into her ear. “I say we make a break for it.”

“They know who we are. They’ll just get a warrant and hunt us down. Or maybe just shoot us.” Buffy rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “You can’t fight them, and I shouldn’t fight them, and I’m pretty sure even Slayer healing would have trouble with a gunshot wound.”

Spike clutched her harder. “Bloody buggering FUCK.”

Buffy pulled back so she could see his face, red and blue flashes playing across its harsh lines. He looked just like she felt, desperate and furious and a little bit lost. “We’ll get through this. You’re a badass sexy vampire, and I’m the Chosen One. We’ll figure something out.”

He smirked. “Badass sexy vampire, am I?”

Buffy tossed her head, a little defensively. “You got a problem?”

Spike kissed her quickly, just as the footsteps stopped and a hand peremptorily tapped him on the shoulder. With an expression of innocent confusion (not a convincing one, Buffy sighed to herself, but she guessed it didn’t matter now), he turned and addressed the scowling policeman.

“Why, HELLO, Officer. What seems to be the trouble?”

\---

Buffy tried to be a good sport, letting herself be handcuffed and bustled into the back of the police cruiser (where Spike took advantage of his lack of reflection in the rearview mirror to kiss her neck some more, unobserved) and then obediently marching into the station, which was apparently staffed almost entirely with Spike’s fan club. But when they searched her to confiscate her belongings and one of Spike’s groupies (because of course she had to be searched by a policewoman, and they were all apparently his groupies) reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the shattered remnants of the jar of cherries, she wanted to cry.

She had had PLANS, for the cherries and for freshly-showered Spike and for her own Sex Goddess empowerment, and instead of the delicious fruition of her plans (not to mention her delicious plans for the fruit) she now had a sticky pocket, a terrible mugshot, and a heaping helping of unfulfilled lust.

So when they finally escorted her and Spike to their cell – the very cell Spike had been in two nights before – and she got to make her phone call, on an ancient rotary phone with a long cord trailing down the cellblock hall, she didn’t have to pretend to be upset.

“Hello?” Giles’s voice was sleepy. Spike watched her with heavy-lidded eyes from the cot.

“Giles?” Her voice shook. She sat down on the edge of the cot; Spike shifted to stroke his hand up and down her back. She couldn’t tell if he was trying to comfort her or preparing to make a move, but either way it was nice.

“Buffy!” She could hear Giles fumbling for his glasses. “Dear heavens, it’s two in the morning. Are you all right?”

“Um, yeah, I guess. There’s just been a… a little snag here.” She twisted her fingers in the old, stretched-out phone cord. Spike sat up and slid his arms around her waist from behind; she relaxed back into him. “We’re… Spike and I… we’re at the police station.”

“Oh, dear Lord. What did Spike do to get arrested this time?” His voice was edged with exasperation.

“Yeah, about that… They didn’t just arrest Spike.” The vampire in question started to kiss her neck, which was definitely more making-a-move than comfort, but she was okay with that too as long as he kept it phone-friendly.

There was long moment of silence. “Buffy, I realize that whatever you are trying to say is difficult, but it is very late, or rather very early, and I would appreciate it if you would get to the point.”

“They arrested me, too.”

“Dear Lord, on what grounds?”

“Um, vandalism.” Buffy sniffled, and the words started to rush out. “See there were these demons, and a sacrifice, and breaking things…. but then the demons all dissolved away, and the police found us all in the middle of the broken things, and now they want to charge me with breaking all the things, which I totally didn’t! Well, maybe I did break one thing, but it was only by being thrown into it, and then Spike broke the other thing helping me kill the demons, so anything that got broken was one-hundred-percent the demons’ fault, but then the police showed up and arrested us! And now I’m in jail! And it smells really gross and I want to go home.” Spike’s hands on her stomach were surprisingly soothing; she covered them with her own free hand and gave a tiny squeeze.

“…You say Spike helped you?”

“Giles, that is so not the point here! The important part is the Buffy-in-a-stinky-jail-cell-wanting-to-go-home part!” She scrubbed at her nose with her fist. “But yeah, Spike can kill demons now.” She felt Spike grin against her back, and his hands slipped under her shirt, and whoa, that was definitely a move. A really good move.

“Dear Lord.”

“Yeah, Giles, can we move on from the ‘Dear Lord’ing and get to the ‘bailing Buffy out’ item on the agenda?” She twisted the mouthpiece of the phone up into the air, because Spike had jumped straight from making-a-move to check-and-mate, and she was starting to gasp.

Giles sighed. “Of course. I’ll be there shortly.”

“Thanks, Giles.” She hung up the phone abruptly and fell back against Spike. “You are so bad.”

“That’s part of my winning charm.” He lifted her with his strong hands and shifted on the cot until he was leaning against the wall and she was nestled between his legs, right up against his erection, his hands possessively cupping her breasts from behind.

“Dear Lord,” she moaned facetiously. He chuckled against the nape of her neck.

“Now, perhaps we should return this museum piece to the nice officer waiting down the hall, and get on with enjoying our incarceration.” Spike pushed the phone off onto the ground with his knee; it jangled with the impact.

“Giles is on his way,” she protested, arching her back to build up a little friction against his palms. “He’ll be here really soon. And I am not having sex in this jail cell. It smells. I don’t get why it’s so special.”

“Pity, that. I’m thinking these walls could take quite a bit of punishment. I could drive into you SO DEEP…”

“Officer!” Buffy jumped to her feet, snatching up the phone from the floor. “I’m done with my phone call!” She crossed her arms over her chest and tried to look neutral. The officer took the phone from her hands, glaring at Spike (NOT a groupie, apparently) and strode back down the corridor. As his footsteps faded, Buffy turned and looked daggers at Spike, who had relaxed back on the cot, hands behind his head.

“We are not going to have sex in this jail cell,” she bit out, stalking back towards Spike, who raised a challenging eyebrow. “We are not even going to take off our clothes, because Giles will be here to bail us out in just a little while.” She reached the end of the cot, glaring down at him for a long moment. “Just how good is your hearing?”

He grinned. “Good enough, pet.”

“Good.” She crawled up the length of the cot, sliding up his long delicious body, eyes locked on his the whole way, until her hands were planted on either side of his head, her body suspended just above him, quivering with the strain of not touching. He kept his hands behind his head, but his biceps flexed involuntarily. “So, those are the rules. Clothes stay on. No sex. When you hear someone coming, we stop.”

“Bit hard to shag with clothes on, yeah.” Spike hadn’t moved, but she could feel the effort it took him to resist moving. “So, those are the rules. What’s the game?”

“Everything else,” she whispered, and melted all over him.

\---

Spike estimated he was about three minutes from convincing Buffy to abandon the ‘no sex in the jail cell’ rule (having already won several rules challenges related to the exact definition of ‘staying on’ and also what exactly qualified as ‘clothes’) when he heard footsteps at the end of the corridor, and reluctantly tugged Buffy’s shirt back into place. “Heads up, Slayer.”

“Really? Already?” Buffy pouted, reaching around to refasten her bra. “Giles couldn’t have stopped for a cup of coffee?” She smoothed out her clothes. “Do I look okay?”

Fucking gorgeous. “You look like a bad, rude man has been doing naughty things to you up against a very sturdy wall.”

Buffy looked down at herself in dismay. “Crap. I was hoping I looked like a model citizen who absolutely did not deserve to be in a jail cell overnight.”

“Here.” Spike brushed her hair back from her face, twisting it into a quick knot at the base of her neck. “Schoolmarm hair fools them every time.” He leaned in to murmur in her ear. “Also makes a chap want to take it down again. Muss you up proper.”

She twisted up to meet his lips, but the footsteps were close, so Spike whirled away to pace towards the back of the cell, and a second later Giles appeared, accompanied by a pair of uniformed officers. The Watcher looked twice as poncy as usual; disheveled and strung out was not a good look for him, and it wasn’t helped by his expression of weary resignation.

Buffy rushed up to the bars. “Giles! Giles, you have to get me out of here. I’m not meant for life in The Joint.” Spike had to admit, for a woman who could crack walnuts between her thighs (not to mention his theories about the capabilities of other, more interesting muscles) she made a convincing damsel-in-distress. Very fetching. Called up intriguing images of strategically-ripped white dresses and silken ropes…

Giles removed his glasses wearily, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. “Yes, I rather thought that was what you wanted.” He turned to his escort. “Might we have a moment alone?” The officers shrugged and walked off – just a few cells down, Spike judged, but far enough they could speak without being overheard.

Giles was cleaning his glasses with a pained look. “After speaking with the arresting officers, I have managed to convince them that they have no real proof that the, er, damage to the monuments was caused by you. They did not, in fact, see the damage being wrought, and had to admit that it is possible that you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“That’s great!” Buffy bounced on her toes; Spike casually strolled over to where he could get a better view of her face. “So, they’re letting us go?”

“However,” Giles continued as if she had said nothing, “They are a trifle less sanguine about the Public Indecency charges.”

“Say what?” Buffy froze, eyes flickering to Spike, who kept his face carefully blank, because he was all in favor of not being summarily staked by the Slayer’s outraged father figure. She pouted dramatically, trying to brazen it out. “Whatchu talkin’ ‘bout, Giles?”

Giles sighed and raised his eyes to the heavens, plainly unmoved by Buffy’s desperate pop culture reference. “I was informed that the arresting officers found you and Spike engaged in, as they so pithily put it, ‘getting it on.’” He fixed her with a stern look. “They were vague as to the details, for which fact I am eternally grateful.”

“No, Giles! They were so…obviously… so… very… mistaken. Silly, silly policemen. I was just giving Spike a… a hug. Because he was so, so helpful with the demon-killing.” The Slayer looked extra delicious when she was lying off the cuff, because she was nearly as terrible at it as he was. Made him want to get her back up against the grey cinderblocks, touch her in all the places that made her turn honest.

“A hug.” Giles was unconvinced.

“Oh, yeah,” Spike interjected, face serious. “Just a little show of affection after a hard fight, is all. Heat of battle, comrades in arms. That sort of thing.”

Buffy nodded vigorously. “He was really helpful.” She flashed Spike a grateful smile, laying it on thick, though Spike figured she didn’t need to act too hard, since he knew she had many, many things to be grateful for that evening.

Giles replaced his glasses. “Fascinating. We shall have to discuss Spike’s, er, helpfulness more fully at another time. In any case, I did manage to bring them around to the idea that any…” He grimaced. “…public displays of affection you may have engaged in were merely the natural exuberance of, er, young newlyweds, and thus not the sort of thing requiring incarceration. They have agreed to release you, and I cannot stress how much I do not wish to say this next part, under the circumstances you confine your conjugal activities to the privacy of your own bedroom.”

Buffy frowned at that. “They actually said ‘privacy?’ Like priv rhyming with shiv?”

“Shiv?”

“Sorry, it’s being here in the Slammer. You learn all sorts of new vocabulary in the Big House.” Spike grinned at that; he had been making good on his promise to teach her new words, though he doubted she’d be sharing those with Giles any time soon.

“Yes, well. What they actually said was that I should tell you to get a room.” Giles carefully avoided meeting Buffy’s eyes.

“Wouldn’t mind havin’ a room,” Spike drawled, leering a bit. “Could use some buggering PRIVacy, seein’ as you hardly ever leave your flat.”

“You are more than welcome to find other accommodations, Spike,” Giles snapped. “Perhaps a nice sunny corner suite.”

“Perhaps I will. Could look around, find a lovely little tomb-with-a-view. Get some candles, a nice comfy bed, some silk sheets…” Red. Definitely red.

“So,” Buffy cut in, face flaming. “Much as I’m enjoying this Better Tombs and Gardens banter, maybe we could, you know, go somewhere that doesn’t smell like pee? Especially since we have to be up at crazy o’clock for more super-fun community service.” Her face went white. “Oh God, what time is it?”

Giles pinched the bridge of his nose. “Close to three, I believe.”

“THREE?” Buffy squeaked. “That’s, like, almost crazy o’clock already. I can’t keep going on two hours of sleep a night.” She sent Spike a panicked glance that he interpreted as how the hell are we going to fit in The Hot Sex? Which he agreed was a definite conundrum, but a challenge he was willing to confront. (He would say it was a cross he was willing to bear, but he had this thing about crosses and not burning himself on them.)

“In that case, I suggest we speak to the officers, who I believe have been authorized to escort you to the front desk, where the paperwork for your release awaits.” Giles gave Buffy a reproving look. “I took the liberty of reading through the paperwork for you.”

Buffy ignored the maybe-a-little-justified implication that she was kind of an idiot sometimes. “Yeah, let’s do that. Like now.”

As Giles took a few steps down the corridor, calling out to the officers, Spike slipped closer to Buffy, sliding a quick hand around the curve of her ass. She leaned into the caress, sighing. “This sucks,” she grumbled.

“Giving me more ideas, luv,” he whispered. Giles was out of sight, so he demonstrated with a quick sip at her neck that made her quiver.

She turned to him, face determined. “When we get back. As soon as Giles goes up to bed. Come to my room.” Her voice was a harsh whisper, barely audible.

He dropped his eyelids, noting the thin lines of fatigue on her face. “You sure, luv?”

She smiled grimly. “I’m sure.”

“All right,” he conceded softly. “But I have one condition.”

She looked at him sidelong. “This better not be gross.”

He grinned. “I’m in the mood for Yummy Sushi.”

\---

It was three-thirty when they finally managed to escape the police station, what with Buffy signing paperwork and Spike signing more autographs. It was completely unfair, but she had to admit that her own mugshot sucked – the night shift photographer was a Spike fan, so she suspected this was deliberate – and Spike’s new mugshot was even hotter than the last; he had the rumpled look of a man who had just been pulled out his bed of sin (or in this case off his stone altar of sin) and who intended to tumble right back in and sin thoroughly for the rest of the night. Buffy slipped one of the mugshots into her stack of paperwork, because if anyone deserved a print of that photo, it was his co-sinner, and snagged another copy of his original mugshot while she was at it, because hers had gotten slimed and then damp on patrol. She needed to get an album or something.

But anyhow, they finally managed to get out the door and into Giles’s crappy car. The ride home was completely silent; Giles was still disgruntled, but apparently too tired even for sarcastic commentary, Spike lounged across the back seat, watching Buffy intently and silently, and Buffy dozed in little half-dreams of naughty vampire hands and curling vampire lips, and also some weird bald guy with a tray of cheese slices.

Upon their arrival, Giles wasted no time in heading up to his bedroom, grunting out a token good-night to Buffy and an automatic stay-the-hell-away-from-my-Glenlivet to Spike, who poured himself a finger of Glenlivet from the crystal decanter as soon as the Watcher was out of sight, drinking it down and setting the tumbler on Giles’s desk. Buffy looked at him in disbelief; Spike shrugged. “Watcher’s so tired he’ll think he drank it himself. ‘Sides, think I deserve a reward tonight for services rendered, yeah?”

Buffy scowled at him, hurt. “Oh, you need a reward for… servicing me?” That sounded a lot naughtier out loud than it had in her head.

Spike leaned back against the desk, eyeing her with a wicked smile. “Was talking ‘bout the demons, luv. Remember those? Dozen or so, glowing blue?” His smile shifted, became sultry. “Believe me, servicing you is its own reward.”

Mollified, Buffy hung her coat on a hook. “Okay then. I guess that’s… okay.” That was lame, but she was too exhausted to even care if she was witty. There was a long awkward moment while she tried to figure out a subtle conversational segue, but then Buffy realized that she was wasting precious time that could be devoted to either sex or sleep, and pitched subtlety out the window. She rounded on him; he was watching her silently, eyes intense, just as he had been in the car. “I’m going to go change into my Yummy Sushi pajamas,” she blurted out. “Meet me in my room so you can take them off.” She hurried towards the bathroom, hearing Spike’s voice behind her.

“Well, if you insist…”

\---

He didn’t meet her in her room. Instead he was standing outside the bathroom when she came out, holding out his arms for her in the dim narrow hallway; she stumbled into them, sleepily kissing just above the neckline of his T-shirt, and tugged him towards the bedroom. “What time is it now?” she mumbled into his delicious chest.

“Four, luv.” He combed his hands into her schoolmarm bun, pulling her long hair down around her shoulders.

She groaned. “My life sucks.” She waited for Spike to take the obvious bait, but he just kept walking her towards the bed, stroking her through the pajamas. She poked him in the stomach. “What, no ‘I’m a bloody pro at sucking’ or ‘I’ll show you sucking, pet’ or maybe just, you know, sucking on something?” She arched her back, presenting a couple of likely candidates.

“Already did that one tonight. Mustn’t repeat material, makes the banter stale.” He tumbled her onto the bed sideways; she wriggled into a comfy position with her head on the pillows. He prowled along with her.

“That better not mean no sucking at all tonight,” she pouted, tracing the sushi over her breasts with her fingers. “Can’t go wrong with the classics.”

“Mmmm,” he hummed noncommittally, catching her pouty lip gently between his teeth. “We’ll see.”

Buffy was pretty sure she had already thrown subtlety out the window, but just in case, she administered a deathblow, curving her hands around her breasts and offering them up. “SPIKE. Stop being a jerk and start sucking.”

He grinned and slid his hands over hers. “I suppose I could take a few requests. Now, where was it you wanted me to suck?” He sampled the base of her neck. “Perhaps here?” he murmured.

“GODDAMMIT SPIKE.” Buffy twisted upwards, and he finally closed his mouth over her nipple, cool wetness dampening the cotton of her pajamas as he sucked hard; she slid a hand into his hair, holding him in place and arching into his mouth. He wove his fingers into her other hand, rubbing her own palm against her other nipple, and Buffy deemed that an acceptable alternative to sucking, seeing as he only had one mouth. “That’s better,” she whimpered, and she could feel his chest quivering with laughter, but he just sucked harder, and then switched breasts, strong fingers replacing his mouth, rubbing damp fabric across her nipple like an apology, or a promise.

He didn’t seem to need any more direction, so she started to slide her hands down his back, diving inside the neckline of his T-shirt to stroke skin, then tugging the hem up to his armpits. She left it there, hands gliding over the smooth muscles of his back, because taking it off required him to stop what he was doing, and she really really didn’t want him to stop what he was doing, but then he reared back onto his knees, eyes hungry, and skinned his black shirt the rest of the way off, which she immediately decided was worth it. She seized the opportunity to unbutton her damp pajama top, spreading it wide as a subtle hint, but then she remembered she wasn’t doing subtle and clasped her own hands over her breasts, letting the nipples pop between her fingers, and she licked her lips and looked at the lascivious curl of his mouth, and when he still didn’t move she gave her nipples a good pinch, and it felt so good she let out a little cry, and that did it for him; he fell forward onto her, kissing her mouth and her throat and rubbing his smooth naked chest against her hard pink nipples, and then sliding back down to worship her breasts with his tongue and teeth.

Now that he was back where she wanted him, or at least a couple of the places she wanted him, she could feel sleepiness washing over her in waves, and she let her head fall back onto the pillow, hands wandering over his shoulders and hair as she floated in a delicious haze of arousal. She rubbed her feet along the fabric of his jeans, wincing when she stubbed her toe on his anklet; she wanted to get her hands back on his incredibly fine ass, preferably without the jeans, but she couldn’t reach, so she slid her feet up until they were cupping him firmly, which had the serendipitous side effect of spreading her thighs wide until his stomach was right up against her crotch. She flexed her thighs, and his deliciously hard cock slid against her, rough denim catching on cotton, and he laughed brokenly, but instead of taking her (subtle!) suggestion he tucked his hands into the bends of her knees, pressing her even wider, and slid further down her body, and licked decisively up the soaked seam of her pajamas, which was all sorts of embarrassing but she was really too tired to be embarrassed and also it was the BEST THING EVER, until he efficiently stripped off her pajama pants, leaving them to dangle where they caught on her ankle bracelet, and came back to do it again except without the fabric in the way and she revised her opinion because THAT really was the BEST THING EVER, and he should never ever stop.

She had read her share of trashy novels, and she had always had the idea that having a man’s mouth ravaging her privates would involve some sort of hyper-awareness of exactly what his tongue was doing, with sneaky titillating euphemisms and clinical terms like clitoris and vagina and maybe even some naughty slang like pussy if it was an especially smutty scene, but now that it was happening she actually couldn’t tell what was happening, except for ooh right there and do that again and oh God more. Her hands were clutched tight in Giles’s Egyptian cotton sheets, and she was pretty sure she was speaking in tongues, but Spike seemed to understand her just fine, because every so often he would laugh right up against her, or swear and press her legs wider and do whatever incredible thing he was doing a shade harder. She came against his tongue with a guttural cry, and relaxed, because of course that was when it was supposed to be over, but he just swore again and doubled down with his wicked, wicked mouth, and she was so surprised that she came again almost immediately, a little firecracker orgasm that startled a shout of laughter out of her, and then he pulled back a bit, melted into a slow, simmering pace that kept her right on the edge, a long tender tide of ecstasy. He was talking now, voice even and soothing as if he was telling her a bedtime story, but the filthiest bedtime story ever, things she would probably slap him for if he weren’t savoring her like gourmet French cuisine, and she lay back and soaked it all in like sunshine, her whole body hot except where Spike was cool and sweet and perfect, and at last a gentle, inexorable orgasm washed over her like a wave, a tidal wave, and she laughed to herself at how lame that image was, right out of a bad novel, but it still swept her away, washed her clean, and she sank and sank and sank into darkness.

\---

Spike felt Buffy go limp, and he took a moment, pressed his forehead to the sheets and willed his body to calm down, because that had been by God the most erotic experience of his hundred-plus years, the taste and the feel and the scent and the incredible heat of the Slayer on his tongue, and he knew, KNEW that fucking her would be glorious, worth savoring for hours, and he refused to come all over the sheets like a fucking schoolboy.

A short while later, he realized that the Slayer was still limp, and he started to worry. He knew he was good, but he was fairly certain that Buffy was unlikely to pass away from the sheer pleasure of his mighty tongue, and besides which he had a certain amount of experience in killing and should be able to tell when someone had died. Also, wouldn’t his chip have fired if he had killed her? But would it fire if she died from sheer pleasure, and he had no intent to kill her? That was an interesting question indeed but BLOODY HELL if she was dead he was never going to get to fuck her, and that was not at all acceptable, he wasn’t ready for her to die yet, and so he scrambled up her splayed out body, wild with panic, until he could see her chest, rising and falling with even breath, and then collapsed next to her with a curse of relief.

She had fucking FALLEN ASLEEP. Before they got to the fucking. Fuck.

She snored lightly next to him, and he tapped her face a few times trying to wake her up, but gentle taps weren’t doing it – she just stretched her gorgeous naked body and turned on her side to face him – and a rougher shake made his chip twinge, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to waste his time fucking her when she wasn’t awake. He was pissed, of course he was pissed, but watching her sleep – sweat beaded on her skin, breasts still swollen from his devotions, soft blonde hair draped elegantly over her graceful throat – was oddly soothing, and he was oddly willing to be soothed, tracing a finger along the curve of her cheek and the curve of her shoulder and all her other curves while he was at it.

He had never really seen her at rest; she was always in motion (usually in the process of kicking his ass), even her face moving from expression to expression like a hummingbird. Truth be told, it was one of the things he liked best about her, the sheer physicality of her expression, seasoned with a sharp wit and instinctive cunning; all together it made fighting her pure joy, victory something worth striving for. He rested his finger on her neck, there where her fluttering pulse was strongest, and imagined sinking his fangs deep, drinking her down, every delectable ounce of Slayer blood, her body growing cold and still. Never to move again.

It felt hollow.

Suddenly she was too still, too peaceful; he tapped her face again and again, until she brushed at his hand with a frown of annoyance and rolled away from him, mumbling something about cheese. That was better. He curled up behind her, fitting his body all along the warm length of hers, sliding his hand around to rest against her wrist where he could feel the rhythmic beat of her heart, strong and mesmerizing. He rubbed his nose against the pulse in her throat and closed his eyes.

\---

The alarm went off ten minutes later.

Buffy fumbled blindly for the snooze button, there had to be a snooze button PLEASE GOD but none of the buttons made the alarm shut up, one of them even turned on the radio and it was EASY LISTENING so she grabbed the clock and threw it against the wall and it finally shut up, but by now she was awake enough to realize that a crushed alarm clock could not possibly go off again in ten minutes so now she had to get up, and then she realized that there was a hard cool half-naked vampire spooned up against her back, which was… nice. Also very weird.

Spike shifted against her, pulling her closer with a hand on her stomach, which brought to her attention the fact that the denim of his jeans was rubbing right against her bare bottom, which in turn reminded her of the huge sexual rollercoaster of the day before, and she rolled back to meet his eyes, heavy-lidded and pure pure blue – had she known they were blue? – and smiled awkwardly. What exactly was the correct etiquette for the morning after, greeting a guy you mostly didn’t like but who had gifted you with multiple mind-blowing orgasms? Especially when she was thinking maybe she liked him a little, because, well, mind blown.

“Morning, Slayer,” Spike murmured, rubbing his knuckles along her collarbone and down her shoulder, brushing aside the edges of her open pajama top. “Enjoy your beauty sleep?”

“I got sleep?” She yawned hugely, sitting up. She looked down at herself. Wow, that was a whole lot of naked. Thank God Giles was unlikely to be awake any time soon. She glanced at Spike, still wearing his jeans (though his feet were bare, and that threw her for a loop because even though intellectually she knew he had to have feet, he just didn’t look quite right without big stompy boots) and groaned. “Aw, dammit. We are never going to have The Sex.”

Spike raised his eyebrows. “Never pegged you for a quitter, Summers. We haven’t even been trying for twenty-four hours.”

Buffy frowned. “Is that really all?” She ran through recent events in her head. “Huh. Seems like longer.”

“Does it now?” Spike slid a hand over her hip. “Perhaps it has been longer. Perhaps you’ve been wanting a taste of Spike for years now, an’ just couldn’t admit it.”

She cast him a sidelong glance. “Projection much? Pretty sure of the two of us, I’m not the one with the long-term obsession.”

Spike lay back, looking thoughtful. “Maybe. Hard to say.”

“Anyhow…” Buffy yawned again, feeling her jaw pop. “Time to get our community service on.” She blearily looked at the fragments of Giles’s spare alarm clock. “And maybe some shopping.”

Spike oozed up behind her, sliding her pajama top down to her biceps and kissing her shoulder. “Let’s play hooky today.”

“Whoa, I am so not ready for prostitute roleplay.” She wasn’t sure how that would actually be significantly different from just having sex, but it still sounded icky.

“Hooky, luv, not hooker. Cutting class, skipping school, playing truant…”

“Oh. God, I want to.” Maybe she could find a Catholic school uniform somewhere around… Buffy shook her head to clear it. “But I’m pretty sure the morning after our arrest on vandalism charges is a lousy time to skip out on our mandatory vandalism cleanup.” She glared at him, reminded of the hours at the police station, at least the not-in-the-sturdy-walled-cell part, and the ankle bracelets, and that horrible contract. Yeah, still not completely with the liking. “Besides, I’m sure your groupies have been up all night baking you heart-shaped cookies and writing erotic poetry.”

“Jealous, luv?” Spike lay back and ran a hand down his delicious bare stomach, stopping just short of the button of his jeans.

“As if!” Buffy resolutely turned her head away and swung her legs off the bed, which would have worked better if the pajama pants still caught in her anklet weren’t also trapped under Spike’s legs. She overbalanced and tipped off the edge of the bed, leaving her trapped leg behind, landing on her shoulder with a painful thunk. “Crap.”

“OW!” She peeped up over the edge of the bed; Spike was clutching his head. “Fuck.”

“You have got to be kidding me. The chip fired off for that?” She rubbed her shoulder, which was a little sore, but probably wouldn’t even have time to bruise before Slayer healing fixed it.

He glared at her. “Lucky me.” He pulled her trailing pajamas out from under his leg, tossing them at her; her freed leg followed her down to the floor. “Get dressed, Slayer. Can’t show up on Main Street starkers.” He touched his tongue to his teeth, eyeing her. “Tragically.”

Buffy yanked the pajama leg free of her ankle bracelet, rising to her feet with what dignity she could muster and grabbing her overnight bag of clothing. “Well then you should get a shirt on, so we don’t drown in Officer Ho-bag’s drool.”

“I’ll do that,” Spike replied, eyes amused. Buffy started for the bathroom to change; Spike’s voice stopped her in the doorway. “Pet?” She turned back with a raised eyebrow. “Wear something red,” he purred.

She did.

\---

The Espresso Pump had just opened for business when Buffy and Spike arrived on Main Street; Buffy bought three mocha lattes in an almost-certainly-doomed attempt to wake up the rest of the way. They didn’t have jelly donuts, which was probably for the best given how things had escalated the day before, but some huge brownies provided some chocolate therapy (she bought one each for Spike and Willow too, to be fair) and helped her resign herself to the fact that she was destined to never get a good night’s sleep again. The Sleepless Slayer. The Chosen Insomniac. SO TIRED.

Willow met them in front of the bank and sheepishly handed Buffy another mocha latte. “Great minds think alike!” she chirped, which hurt Buffy’s head, but she smiled and hugged Willow and gave her a brownie, and gave Spike his at the same time so he wouldn’t have a chance to get naughty with it inside the tent, because she was too tired to resist his wicked temptation, she just knew it.

Willow started pouring out the circle for the tent retrieval spell. When she was done, she planted her hands on her hips and scanned the area. “Okey-dokey, where do you want it?”

“Um, I think we should do the movie theater next. Start at the poster on the far left.” Buffy yawned prodigiously, half expecting her head to turn inside out. (Not likely, but this was the Hellmouth.) She meandered over to look at the posters. “Oh no, not Elmo!” She glared halfheartedly at Spike. “Thanks for ruining my happy childhood memories, when monsters were fuzzy and cute and only leaped out of alleyways to teach me about the letter L and how to count to twelve.”

Spike lit up a cigarette, clearly unrepentant. “Wouldn’ta done anything to Cookie Monster or Grover, pet, but Elmo’s an abomination. Was just revising the poster to reveal his true nature. Same thing with Pikachu. That little bastard’s a psychopath.”

“Takes one to know one,” Buffy snarked with a teasing smile. He returned a sly smile of his own, the kind of smile that promised delicious revenge later.

Willow waved to get her attention. “Hey, ready to go now. Might want to be, you know, not right where I’m putting the tent.

“Sorry, Will.” Buffy stepped back over by Spike, yawning.

He looked at her askance. “Any particular reason you’re standing so I’m between you and Ground Zero?”

“Not at all,” Buffy grinned, then yawned again.

Willow commenced her chanting, and Buffy watched nervously as a breeze started to circle her, swirling her red hair up into the air. The wind seemed to gather itself, like a cat about to pounce, then suddenly whooshed off skywards; a moment later the tent whooshed back down, vinyl sides flapping, and settled delicately on the ground, just where Buffy had wanted it. Willow turned to her with shining eyes, Buffy dutifully applauded, impressed.

“Let me check inside, make sure it’s all okay,” she yawned, trudging forward. The interior of the tent was dark, because hey! still night! but she managed to determine that all the tarps were still secure in place, and her chair was hanging off the frame where they’d left it, so she took a moment in the cool soothing darkness to set up the chair, and pulled the rocks out of her backpack to weigh down the tarp edges again, and then debated how comfortable the chair would be for sleeping because it was so nice and dark and quiet and the mocha lattes weren’t doing a damn thing as far as she could tell. She yawned again, left her backpack next to the chair, and slipped back out.

Spike and Willow were talking in hushed voices, which was odd, because Buffy was pretty sure Willow was still holding a (perfectly understandable) grudge about the attempted-biting-in-the-dorm-room thing, and possibly also about the kidnapping-and-threatening-with-a-broken-bottle thing from before that. But Spike slipped Willow what looked like a wad of cash, and she gave him a jaunty little salute before walking back over to Buffy, and she figured he was sending her for cigarettes or alcohol, which she was too young to buy but everyone in Sunnydale knew where you could go to not get carded, and ooh, maybe he was sending her for donuts, maybe custard-filled ones this time, and then Buffy yawned and forgot all about it.

Willow greeted her again with a sympathetic grimace. “Still got the sleepies?” Buffy nodded, yawning again. Willow hugged her gently. “I’ll be back in a little while, okay? Got to run some errands. But we can all walk to Psychology class together when you’re done.”

“’Kay,” Buffy mumbled. Willow gave her another hug, tossed Spike a thumbs-up, and headed off down the street.

Then Spike’s hand was under her elbow, guiding her along, and it was weird, she realized fuzzily, that she didn’t worry at all where he was taking her, because she really wasn’t supposed to trust him, but she kind of did, she had certainly trusted him with her body, and she had trusted him enough to sleep in the same room as him, and even now she trusted that he wasn’t taking her off to her doom – because even if he couldn’t kill her with his own two hands, he could always turn her over to something nasty that could – and it turned out she was right not to worry, because he was just guiding her inside the dark dark tent. She automatically headed for her chair, but he took her hand and pulled her away, to the movie theater wall, and leaned her up against the Sleepy Hollow poster, which was appropriate because she was so so sleepy, and then he bent down and kissed the hollow of her throat, and that made it even more appropriate, so she laughed.

“What’s funny, luv?” His voice was gentle but rough; he traced his soft soft lips – did vampires use Chapstick? – all along her collarbone.

“Just, you know, Sleepy Hollow, and I’m all sleepy, and you’re all kissing me in the hollow… spot… and it was funny in my head, before I tried to put it into words.” She closed her eyes and sagged against the smooth plastic. “Buffy too tired to brain.”

“No need to think, Slayer.” Spike took her face in his hands then, tilted it up, and then they were kissing like they had all the time in the world, long lazy explorations with tongues and lips and teeth, and even with her eyes closed Buffy could feel the tent starting to lighten with the sunrise, glowing green against her eyelids, and it was beautiful, beautiful, desire curling like smoke inside her, somehow not urgent at all, like the world was nothing but kissing and green and the soft soft Lips of Spike, and she could feel tears starting down her cheeks, but not sad tears at all, just the world overflowing, and Spike just brushed them away with this thumbs and kept kissing her, and it was beautiful.

Then the spell was broken by the unmistakable sound of a car, it had to be the patrol car pulling in to the curb, and Spike was pulling away – she made an involuntary sound in her throat because she wasn’t ready to leave their beautiful green kissing world for the real world just yet – and he took her by the shoulders, kissed her on the forehead, and gave her a little shake.

“Showtime,” he said bracingly, and Buffy wondered grumpily just how Spike had ended up in charge, but she felt another yawn coming on, and decided it was probably okay for her to delegate being-in-charge for a little while, and went out to meet their overseers.

Officer Michaels had brought cookies.

\---

The cookies were actually pretty good, chocolate chip with lots of extra chips, neatly tucked in a happy little Christmas tin; Spike thanked Michaels with a courtly kiss on the hand and dutifully ate a cookie with an expression of bliss, then once Michaels had left the tent to resume guard duty he tossed the tin to Buffy and stripped down to his T-shirt. (Buffy tried to encourage him to keep going with a couple of wolf whistles and a soft “Take it all off!” but Spike just flexed his arms and grinned and said she was welcome to tuck some cash into his pants, and she had just spent all her money on mocha lattes, which she decided she didn’t want anywhere near Spike’s crotch, so that was that.) Officer Lin had impassively presented Spike with a can of solvent and a pile of rags, and pointed to the warning on the label about flammable fumes, which was undoubtedly why Spike was now scrubbing away at Christina Ricci’s fangs with a lit cigarette clenched in his teeth.

Buffy drank the rest of her mocha lattes in quick succession, alternating sips with bits of cookie, hoping the sugar buzz would succeed where the caffeine was obviously failing, but she still kept dozing off in the chair. This did not bode well for Psychology class, which was not nearly as interesting as watching Spike do manual labor.

Then Willow popped in with an S-mart bag, jerking Buffy out of yet another half-dream (seriously, what was with the guy with the cheese?) to blearily wonder if it was time to go to class already. But the shadows of the police escort on the tent had barely moved since sunrise, so it couldn’t possibly be. She struggled to her feet.

“’Bout time,” Spike muttered around his cigarette. (Buffy would swear he was smoking even more than usual, just because it was dangerous.)

“Sorry, Spike. Took me a little time to find someone with a car. Wanna give me a hand with this?” Spike put out his cigarette on the lid of the solvent can and sauntered over to where Willow was laying out something shiny and wrinkled and plastic on the ground. “I got the heavy-duty one so it doesn’t pop when you try to move it.”

And then Spike was pumping some sort of bellows, and the plastic started inflating, and all Buffy could think was this had better not be a creepy blow-up doll.

It turned out to be an air mattress, though, which Willow covered with a red sheet (Buffy would bet Spike had insisted on the color) and finished up with a tiny novelty pillow, with a cartoon hippo saying ‘Give me chocolate, or give me sleep!’ It was just two things shy of the BEST THING EVER. Well, maybe three or four, with the distinct possibility of being demoted in the near future. But still really really good.

Buffy sniffled. “Willow, you are the best friend in the universe.” She enfolded the redhead in a watery hug.

“Thanks, Buffy, but not actually my idea. Not that I mind you hugging the messenger.” Willow jerked her head towards Spike, who had gone back to cleaning.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it, Slayer. Just want you well rested for tonight’s round of demon-killing.” He glanced at her sidelong. “No fun if you sleep through it.”

“Well, far be it from me to be stingy with well-deserved hugs.” Buffy slid her arms around Spike, squeezing hard and hoping it managed to convey the huge pile of feelings that were rushing through her exhausted brain, half of which she wasn’t sure she recognized. He slid one hand down to squeeze hers, briefly, then went on de-vamping Johnny Depp.

Willow was giving them a funny look when she turned back, but it didn’t look either suspicious or knowing, just funny, so Buffy closed her eyes and gratefully crawled onto the air mattress and snuggled her face into the pillow, drowsily wishing Spike could curl up behind her, because that had been nice. Weird, but nice. So, so nice.

She drifted off to dream of cheese.

\---

Spike figured the witch would leave after completing her mission, but instead she sat down in Buffy’s camp chair and pulled out a pair of notebooks and a set of colored pens, so it looked like she was staying for the long haul. Which was kind of a bother, because he kept wanting to look over at Buffy sleeping, but he didn’t want Willow to notice him looking over at Buffy sleeping, because it was sodding embarrassing, especially since Willow was one of the few people who still saw him as something of a Big Bad, even with the chip, and wasn’t that a miserable state of affairs? But he still looked, once in a while, under cover of changing rags, or sneaking a nip from his flask, or lighting another cigarette, and once or twice without any excuse, because he really wanted to, and he had never been into self-denial. She had worn red leather pants (for me! he thought with satisfaction) and a tight black shirt, and black ankle boots, and it was like she was wearing his colors, like all of her body was marked as his, and he wanted to wake her up, stroke her back into the passion that was her nature, maybe take her right up against Johnny Depp’s face, but he also wanted to watch her sleeping for hours and hours, maybe stroke her golden hair, and he couldn’t very well do either with Willow sitting right there, humming as she occasionally switched pens, so he settled for stolen glances and detailed plans for later that night, and kept on cleaning.

He had finished with Johnny Depp and moved on to Bruce Willis (which thankfully did not require any tent-moving) when Willow finally spoke.

“So, you know I don’t trust you.” Her voice was matter-of-fact; he turned and looked over his shoulder, allowing his eyes to slide across Buffy on the way.

“Yeah. So?”

“And I also don’t really like you. Because attacking me in my dorm room, so not cool.”

He shrugged. “S’pose that’s fair.” He dropped his rag and lit up another cigarette, leaning against the wall between posters. “Not like I’m ‘specially fond of any o’ you lot.”

Willow rummaged in her pile of pens. “Where’s my chartreuse? Oh, wait, here it is.” She wrote something neatly, then looked up at Spike. “Buffy’s my best friend.”

“We ever going to get past stating the obvious?” Spike dropped his eyes so he could run his gaze over Buffy again.

“Sorry, I just want to get all the facts out there first, so there’s no confusion.” Willow set down her pens, fixing Spike with a serious look. “I’ve never been good at making friends. Mostly just Xander, and he and I became friends so long ago that I hardly even remember how it happened. Buffy… Buffy was the first girl who ever sat down and talked to me, and wanted to be my friend. She picked me, out of all of Sunnydale High, over being popular.” She picked at the wire of her notebook. “I don’t know what high school was like when you were human, or if you even went to high school, but nowadays it seems like being popular is the only thing that makes it bearable. Buffy could have been popular. She’s pretty, she’s funny, she knows how to dress and put on makeup that looks good, and she even knows how to talk to people. Even being the Slayer – she could have found a way to make it all work.” Willow shrugged. “Instead, she picked me and Xander. She LIKED me and Xander. And if she hadn’t, I wouldn’t have any of this.” She flailed her hand around in the air vaguely.

“What, the tent?” Spike took a deep drag of his cigarette, not quite meeting Willow’s eyes.

“No, this.” Willow gestured again, and suddenly all her pens were floating around her head, dancing in the air. “The magic. The… the confidence to even speak to you. You are kind of intimidating, you know.”

“Am I?” Spike smiled wickedly at that, shifting into a more aggressive stance.

Willow rolled her eyes. “What I’m trying to get at is, Buffy’s really special to me, because she was always special on her own, not perfect of course, but special, and instead of keeping all that special to herself, she brought me in, and helped me to find my own special me.”

There was a wisecrack just waiting to cut into that special little speech, but Spike held back and looked at the ground, uncomfortable. “We done with the exposition yet?”

“Getting more pointy here, I promise.” Willow let the pens fall to the ground. “So I’ve known Buffy the whole time she’s known you, and if you don’t mind my saying so, she’s always had a lot to say about you. Mostly complaining. And I know this isn’t a surprise to you, because she’s never been shy about telling you her brutal negative opinions to your face.”

“True, that,” Spike said warily.

“And you have also never held back in telling Buffy how much you hate her and plan on killing her the second you get the chip out of your head.”

Spike didn’t like where this was going, but the tent was in full sunlight now, so there was no escape. “Yeah, that’s the plan, all right.”

“And just the other night, at the Scooby meeting, you two were all with the threats and the insults and the seething hatred.”

Spike declined to comment. Willow leaned in for the kill, eyes narrowing.

“So what I’m wondering is, how come this morning Buffy’s all ‘ooh, thank you Spike, you deserve a hug’ and ‘here Spike, have a brownie’ and in the meantime you’re like ‘Slayer needs something comfy to sleep on’ and ‘here’s some money to buy a cozy bed and sheets, but make sure they’re red’ and ‘want you well rested, Slayer’ – and I don’t mind telling you, it’s the you giving me money part that’s freaking me out the most.”

Spike glanced involuntarily down at Buffy, who was snoring lightly. “Maybe we’re just tryin’ to get along, seeing as we can’t get away from each other right now.”

“Maybe.” Willow crossed her arms, face resolute. “Or maybe, just maybe, you and Buffy have been making with the smoochies.”

Spike’s eyes flew wide. Buffy was going to kill him. “No! We have not! Definitely not.” He looked longingly down at Buffy’s tempting lips.

Willow gasped and pointed at him. “You have! Oh my God, I wasn’t sure, but you have the worst poker face I’ve ever seen! You’ve been smooching Buffy!”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with my poker face,” Spike retorted, seizing on the least-related-to-Buffy part of Willow’s statement.

Willow smiled at him patronizingly. “Really? If you play poker, I bet you always lose.”

“Do not. I win plenty.” Spike grumbled, not mentioning that it generally required a large amount of cheating and a dash of intimidation.

“I notice you have nothing to say to the accusations of Buffy-smooching,” Willow settled back in the chair, steepling her fingers.

“What is this, the People’s Court?” Spike muttered, pulling out his flask.

“So,” Willow continued, touching her steepled hands to her chin. “The smoochies have landed. I suspected as much. That explains Buffy’s unusual behavior.” She angled her shrewd eyes back up at him, catching him by surprise. “What it doesn’t explain is you. You did something nice.”

Spike spluttered on his sip of booze (thankfully cheap cognac, not the pricy Scotch). “I am not nice! You take that back!” Bugger, didn’t anyone think he was scary anymore?

“I didn’t say you were nice. I know you’re not nice. Tried to kill me, remember?” Willow smiled. It wasn’t a very pleasant smile. “I said you DID something nice. For Buffy. You gave me money, to buy her an air mattress and pretty red sheets and a pillow, so that she could catch up on sleep. You can swim in Denial all you want, but that was a Verifiably Nice Thing to Do.”

Spike glared at Willow. “Maybe I just know what side my bread is buttered on, yeah? Keep the Slayer happy, she’s not so eager to turn me to dust.”

“I don’t think so,” Willow shook her head emphatically.

“Oh, really? And why not?” Spike took another big swig of cognac.

Willow smiled again, and this time it was gentle, and a little sad. “Because you wanted the sheets to be red.”

Spike looked down at Buffy, nestled in the middle of red red sheets, wrapped in red and black, wrapped in his colors, and he couldn’t say anything, because whatever Willow was thinking, she was probably right. Except it was wrong. Completely wrong. So devastatingly wrong.

“I know what it looks like,” Willow continued quietly. “I’ve seen that look on other faces before, and it usually doesn’t end up all sunshine and roses. I’m sorry.”

Spike scowled defensively. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Slayer an’ I are natural enemies. I get this chip out, we’re going to have us a confrontation, and one of us is going to die.”

“Maybe so. But I’m still right.” She looked at him steadily. “You’re in love with Buffy.”

“Am not.” He drank from his flask, not meeting her eyes. God, no. Please, no.

“Okay, you’re not.” Willow said amiably. “It doesn’t really matter to me what you believe, because I still haven’t gotten to the point.” She reached down to her bag and rummaged around for a second. “This is the point I’m getting at.” She held out a sharpened number-two pencil at arms’ length, like an artist checking for scale. “I once staked a vampire with THIS PENCIL.” Willow looked at the pencil she was holding up, and quirked her mouth. “Well, okay, not this exact pencil, but one just like it. Maybe not even as sharp. It was pretty cool.” She narrowed her eyes, and the pencil jumped out of her hands, arrowing straight at Spike. He jumped back reflexively; it stopped just shy of his chest, hovering right at heart level.

“What are you playing at,” Spike growled.

“Oh, I’m not playing.” Willow smiled again, her not-so-pleasant smile. “I still have a lot to learn about witchcraft. I still have a lot of spells go wrong. But I’ve already learned that I have a lot of power, just waiting for me to be good enough to tap it. And I do a lot of research. Do you know what I research most of all?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Ways to kill vampires, that’s what. Because Buffy’s my best friend, and I want to be able to help her, the way she helped me. I have a lot of good ideas. And even without those, I already know I can kill a vampire, just with what I’ve already mastered. Levitation. Fire.”

“Mind putting this away, luv?” Spike glared at the hovering pencil.

“Sure thing. Not planning to stake you today.” The pencil floated back to Willow; she caught it and turned it over in her hands, thoughtfully. “This is just a warning. Buffy is my best friend. And I don’t like to see her get hurt. I’m not going to tell anybody about this. Not about the smoochies, or the emotions you claim not to have, or any of it. Because Buffy seems happy, even though she’s also completely exhausted, and that’s all I really care about.” Willow tucked the pencil back in her bag. “I just wanted to suggest you not stab her in the back. Or actually anywhere. Because I don’t have a lot of friends, but the ones I do have? I’d do just about anything for.” She grinned, suddenly cheerful and sunny again. “Just FYI.”

Spike rubbed his chest as if the pencil had left a mark, eyeing Willow with grudging respect. “You’re pretty scary, you know that?”

Willow shrugged. “Everyone’s scary. It just takes the right person, or maybe the right set of circumstances, to bring it out of us.” She looked thoughtful. “Or maybe it takes the right person to hold it back. I’m not quite sure… Most people aren’t strong enough to be good all on our own. We reflect the people around us, so if people around us are good, it makes it easier to be good too. And some people are just like a bright, bright light. They don’t see it themselves, because all they see is the shadows all around them, but when you’re standing right next to them, you can’t help but see it, and reflect it. We need people like that, I think, to become our own best person. Even though they don’t even know they’re doing it sometimes.” She gave him a wry little half-grin. “But that’s just me being all philosophical. I’ve been told I think too much. Shouldn’t you be cleaning or something?” And she gathered her colored pens and got back to her notebooks, and Spike picked up his cleaning supplies and got back to Bruce Willis’s face, and they both started to work in silence.

But every so often, Spike turned and looked at Buffy’s sleeping face, framed in red, and pretended Willow couldn’t see him, and she pretended not to notice, even though they both knew it was a sham.

And Buffy slept right through it all.

 

End Chapter 6

 

Chapter 6 Author’s Notes:

Gratuitous quotes (or near-quotes) from: Diff’rent Strokes, The Great Muppet Caper (not very exact, but Buffy’s line about the Big House should absolutely be read in the voice of Miss Piggy), Ratatouille (anachronistic but irresistible), and a Sandra Boynton pillowcase my parents got me when I went away to boarding school. Because Sandra Boynton is awesome.


	7. Consummation

Buffy was awakened by a gentle hand on her shoulder. Willow’s. Spike was several feet away, back to her, scrubbing away at the last traces of black Sharpie on Tom Cruise’s face. She blinked in confusion.

“Weren’t we at the other end of the theater?”

Willow grinned. “That was hours ago. It’s almost time to head to class now.” She was sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk; her backpack was already neatly set out with Buffy’s by the wall.

Now that Buffy was more awake, she could see from the shadows on the tent – or rather the lack thereof – that the sun was high in the sky, but it was beyond disorienting, waking up in a different spot than where she had fallen asleep. “I figured you would wake me up when it was time to move the tent. How’d you manage?”

“Oh, I’ve been working on my levitation control, and Spike’s pretty strong. I just lifted things enough to make them move easily, and he slid them along. You will note that your comfy bed is unpopped, despite the iffy quality of Sunnydale’s sidewalks.”

Buffy looked over at Spike, who was uncharacteristically silent. “And Spike didn’t give you any trouble?”

Willow rolled her eyes a bit. “No, he was a perfect angel.” She shrugged. “Don’t worry, I was a real slave-driver. Showed him who’s the boss of this here chain gang. Spike was totally obedient and well-behaved.”

Buffy laughed at that, because the image of (1) a well-behaved Spike (2) obediently (3) following orders (4) given by Willow (5) who was being even the tiniest bit stern, was five escalating levels of Bizarro-World, right up to maximum bizarritude. “Yes, I’m sure he quaked in fear at the thought of your Iron Fist of Justice.”

“What can I say? I’m hard-core.” Willow’s face was deadpan. “Anyhow, I figured we should both try to fit in a potty break before we start today’s Sewer Trek. Mind if I go first? I didn’t want to leave Spike unsupervised.”

“Yeah, go ahead.” Now that she was more awake, she was starting to feel the effects of drinking four Mocha Lattes in half an hour. The caffeine and sugar had definitely landed.

“Okey-dokey, be back in five minutes!” Willow’s voice was extra loud and cheerful; she patted Spike on the shoulder. “Five minutes!”

Willow slipped out of the tent, and Buffy lounged back on her air mattress, watching Spike scrub. He was ignoring her, which was weird. Spike never ignored her, even when she desperately wanted him to, and now that she was feeling sorta-rested and a bit hyper, she was thinking maybe she and Spike could fit in a little smoocharama before Willow got back. The movie theater bathrooms had air dryers, and Willow was conscientious about drying her hands all the way, never taking the damp-hands-on-the-pants shortcut that some other less-patient people (Buffy) usually opted for, so she figured Willow’s estimate of five minutes was good, and she had a good idea by now what Spike was capable of doing in five minutes, if he would only turn around and pay her some attention.

Five minutes was not a lot of time, she reminded herself after about ten more seconds of silent treatment, and decided that she wasn’t going to waste another ten seconds waiting for Spike to notice that they were alone. “So, Spike. Willow says you were a Very Good Boy while I was in dreamland. Does this mean I get to rub your belly?”

Spike looked at her sidelong, “Morning, Buffy,” he said in a rough, oddly subdued voice. He went back to scrubbing industriously, cigarette clenched tight between his teeth.

Buffy struggled to her feet – a six-inch mattress was just not a convenient height for a graceful rise – and slipped up behind him, sliding her hands around his waist and under his shirt. “A girl needs a better good morning than that.”

He leaned back into her, dropping his rag on his boots and flicking his cigarette down onto the cement. “Hmm. Does ‘a girl’ have something in mind, pet?” His hands slid back to cup her red-leather-clad behind.

“How about kissing me for the next four minutes?” Buffy brushed her lips from the collar of his shirt up the hard knobs of his spine, rising on her toes to reach the last few.

Spike gasped out a laugh, and silkily turned in the circle of her arms, somehow sliding his hands around on her body until they were framing her face and he was kissing her, eyes closed, lips desperate, as if he was breathing her in, a drowning man coming up for air.

Except of course he didn’t need to breathe, not at all, and Buffy had never quite mastered the breathing-through-the-nose-while-smooching thing, so when the deep kiss went on and on and on she had to break free, sucking in a lungful of air. “Whoa. Let a girl inhale once in a while.” She frowned. That… was not a look she expected to see on Spike’s face. Seductive, or lustful, or even pissed off she was prepared for. Instead, he looked vaguely horrified. “What, do I have bed head? Or pillow marks on my face?”

Spike shook himself, and slid his hands up from her cheeks to smooth her hair down. “Yeah. Uh, no. Just thinking.”

“You were thinking? Did I wake up in an alternate universe?” Buffy slid a hand around to test the front of his jeans, and smiled wickedly at what she found. “What could you possibly have been thinking about?”

He leaned into her hand, encouraging. “Just about how much I hate you, luv,” he purred, gently kissing her forehead.

Buffy stroked harder. “I hate you more,” she whispered automatically, though she wasn’t entirely sure that was what she meant, because what she was really thinking was that their five minutes were almost up and that Willow might not appreciate finding her on her knees testing her hypotheses about Spike-flavor. Still, she wasn’t above planting a seed for later. She bunched his shirt in her other hand, tugging him down so she could reach his ear. “Later on, I want a taste of this.”

Spike ground against her palm. “A taste of what?” he said in a completely normal, slightly baffled tone of voice.

“This!” She curled her fingers around his cock as much as the denim would allow.

“Mmmm.” Spike placed a hand over hers, adding pressure. “I think I know what you mean, and I know you know what you mean.” He leaned in to her ear, voice harsh. “I just want to hear you say it.”

Buffy turned red, but she was a Goddamn Sex Goddess who knew what she wanted, and she was not going to back down now. She leaned back and looked him full in the face, smile brilliant. “I want to taste your cock,” she said as clearly as she could manage. His eyes were wide with… something… as they met hers.

Spike was the one to look away, though he had a grim smile on his face as he did. “That can be arranged, luv,” he said hoarsely. He dropped his hand from hers abruptly, briefly kissing the top of her head and turning away. “Better pack up. Willow’s almost back.” He snatched up his discarded rag and started to scrub vigorously at the faint traces of marker still obscuring Tom Cruise.

Buffy sighed and started to fold the red sheets, tucking them into the pillowcase just as Willow popped back in to the tent. “Tag, you’re it!” she said cheerfully, taking the pillowcase out of Buffy’s hands. “Want me to stash this with the tent and stuff?”

“Nah, it’s probably a good idea for me to wash off the drool. Have a bunch of laundry to do anyhow.” Like Giles’s Egyptian cotton sheets, she thought guiltily, hoping Giles hadn’t felt the need to tidy up while she was gone. Then again, maybe he would be too distracted by the wreckage of the alarm clock to even look at the bed. Maybe she should strategically destroy some other objects in the house to dissuade him from paying her and Spike too much attention at all.

“So, you going? I really don’t want to be late to class,” Willow hinted, pulling out the plug of the air mattress.

Buffy frowned. “How far is it to the bathroom?”

“It’s just inside… oh. Yeah, you should probably bring Spike. I doubt they especially want their children’s matinee interrupted by the sound of cats in boiling water.” Spike rolled his eyes, giving his cleaning job a final swipe and tossing the supplies into the Bin of Cleaning Fun.

“He’ll have to cover up and run,” Buffy sighed. “Spike, give me a sec to warn our friendly police escort so they don’t panic and shoot.”

“Whatever, Slayer.” Spike stooped to pick up his duster, shaking it out.

Buffy slipped out of the tent and approached Officer Lin, because no matter how good the cookies had been, Officer Michaels was still a skanky wannabe-fake-husband-stealer. “Hey, um, we’re almost done here for today, and just wanted to let you know that Spike…”

Spike flashed past in a swirl of smoking black leather.

“…is having a bit of an EMERGENCY. If you know what I mean and I think you do,” Buffy rushed out. “But we’ll be back, like, SUPER fast. Because we love our civic duty so so much.”

Lin shrugged, and Buffy dashed after Spike before he could get out of range.

\---

Spike patted briskly at his hands and face, just to make sure he hadn’t started smoldering somewhere, and waited for Buffy in the shadowed foyer of the movie theater. He could hear faint echoes of the movies playing; Elmo’s insipid screech pierced through the rest of the music and voices, and he couldn’t stop from shuddering. There was something seriously fucking wrong with children’s entertainment nowadays. Elmo. Pikachu. Barney. Sodding Teletubbies. Hell, the runaway success of fucking Spongebob Squarepants could only be the result of virgin sacrifices to the Old Ones under the new moon, probably involving multiple virgins and multiple Old Ones, which was a party he was suddenly depressed to have missed, because the Old Ones liked their rituals all posh and expensively catered, and their sacrifices buxom and extra-virginal. It had probably happened on the very night Dru ran off with that fungus demon, the way his luck ran.

Buffy appeared at his side then, a little flustered, and he deliberately looked down at the floor, because looking at her face was just not a good idea right at the moment, it was too confusing and he didn’t like being confused, he liked things simple and straight to the point. Things had been so much easier when he could just do whatever the hell he wanted to, whenever the hell he wanted to, and Slayers were just obstacles to be killed. Though on second thought, the sex-before-killing thing was proving to have merit.

Not that he was buying Willow’s LOVE hypothesis, because Drusilla was the one he loved, the only one he could ever love, except now that he tried to imagine her, she seemed faded somehow, like a newspaper photograph left too long in the sun, and for just a moment as Buffy tugged him impatiently towards the restrooms, hand warm in his, sweet voice apologizing to the bored ticket-taker, it felt like her hand was the only thing that had ever been real in his entire unlife, everything else fading to sepia tones, like neglected displays in the back corners of a museum, tissue-paper flowers from ages ago, and FUCK if he wasn’t starting to think in poetry again, except this time he was fucking sober, and therefore had no fucking excuse.

Buffy let go of his hand to head into the ladies’ room. He started to follow her, because hell if he was going to stand out in the lobby listening to Pikachu and Elmo warble an excruciating duet (with creepy toy backup singers) but Buffy stopped in her tracks, whirling to glare at him. “Spike, you can’t come in here!”

“Why not?” he sulked, eyes skittering off to glare at the beige wall.

“I need to pee. I had four huge mocha lattes this morning, and that’s two more mocha lattes than my bladder was meant to hold. And this is the LADIES room.”

“So? I don’t mind.” He risked a glance at her chest, which was heaving with frustration. Mmm. Definitely did not mind.

“SPIKE. I do not want you in there listening to me pee.” Buffy planted fists on her hips, tapping her foot in a blatant attempt to avoid doing a pee-pee dance.

Spike suspected that pointing out that his enhanced vampire hearing would allow him to hear everything from outside the door anyhow was not a winning argument, and instead slid in closer, running a finger along her collarbone. She caught her breath. “Seem to recall someone telling me she wanted a taste of… something. Who might that have been, I wonder?” He brushed his lips behind her ear, barely enough to feel the heat of her skin. “Could give you a nibble now.”

She was tempted, oh, she was tempted, he could tell by the way her breathing accelerated and she leaned ever so slightly towards him. He knew he shouldn’t look, because it made his brain hurt, but he couldn’t help himself; he lifted his eyes to her face, drinking in the clear hunger in her eyes, a little comforted that she seemed as confused as he felt. Then she shook her head, and smiled, like Cleopatra and Helen of Troy and the Mata Hari and every other dangerous beautiful woman in history must have smiled, and he was suddenly terrified. “No, Spike. I don’t want a nibble.” She placed a finger on his lips. “I want a feast.”

Oh, God.

She leaned in closer, whispering so close to his ear that he could feel her hot breath. “I’ve been thinking about it, you know. What you’ll taste like. What you’ll feel like, on my tongue and in my mouth. How deep I’ll be able to take you. I’ve been thinking that yes, you probably would like some nibbling, because you do have a thing about teeth, don’t you? Perhaps some licking. Maybe even some sucking. I’ve spent hours now wondering just what you would enjoy most, what delicious sounds you’re going to make when I finally have you where I want you. So no, I don’t want just a quick taste in a smelly public restroom. I want to be able to savor every moment, and I want to feast for a long, long time.” She stepped back, giving his slack lips a final flick. “So just wait here. I’ll be right out.” And she turned and sauntered into the bathroom, hips twitching saucily.

He sank back against the wall, closing his eyes. Oh God Oh God Oh God, please no. But holy fuck, YES.

I am so buggered.

\---

Willow was just stuffing the neatly-folded plastic airbed back in its box – successfully, because after all she was a witch – when Buffy and Spike dashed back under the shade of the tent. Smoke wafted up from Spike’s head as he settled his duster around his shoulders, giving Buffy a perfect excuse to run her fingers through his hair and give him a possibly-more-thorough-than-technically-required pat-down, angling her body to block Willow’s view when her hands traveled south.

“No smoke down there,” Spike hissed under his breath, eyes watching Willow over Buffy’s shoulder.

“You sure?” Buffy murmured. “Feels pretty hot to me.” Spike rolled his eyes a bit at that cliché, snagging her hand and bringing it up for a surreptitious nibble on her knuckle.

“Thought you had decided NOT to try and kill me,” he growled.

“I’m pretty sure I never ruled out torture,” Buffy whispered. Spike inhaled sharply, eyes going a bit unfocused, and she grinned. She was really loving how she could make him forget he didn’t need to breathe.

“Well!” Willow called out cheerfully behind her. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m just raring to go get our term paper assignment from Professor Walsh.”

Buffy plastered a hopefully-normal smile on her face and turned around. “Hell yeah!” Willow quirked a disbelieving eyebrow, and Buffy quickly backpedaled. “I mean, as raring as I ever get about huge vacation homework assignments…. Which I guess is not raring at all. But let’s go anyhow.”

After a quick word with Officer Lin, who impassively collected the cleaning supplies, and a good thorough ignoring of Officer Michaels, who walked off with a longing look back at the tent, Buffy slung her puffy-with-bedding backpack on and helped Spike walk the tent off into the alley. Willow wasted no time pouring out her circle of sand, shooing Spike and Buffy down the manhole. “I’ll be there in a sec, guys.”

Buffy was halfway down the ladder when Spike snatched her off and whirled into the tunnel, pressing her up against the wall and burying his face in her throat. “You are driving me completely mental,” he muttered, yanking her legs up around his waist and stroking her thighs. “All this tight red leather.”

Buffy locked her ankles behind his hips and squeezed, grinding against him. “So, you like the pants then?”

“GOD, yeah.” He laughed darkly against her collarbone. “Tell me you’re not wearing any underwear.”

“I could, but it would be a lie.” Buffy kissed his forehead. “Not a big fan of the chafing.”

“White?” He sucked her earlobe into his mouth. “Black?”

“Red. Lace. Thong.” Buffy punctuated each word with a little wriggle.

“God, you ARE trying to kill me.” Spike slid a hand down the back of her pants, toying with her lacy waistband, then gliding his middle finger down along the thong as far as the tight pants would let him. “Just how fond of these knickers are you?”

“No, you may not rip them off me,” Buffy replied primly, arching her back to encourage his questing finger to conquer some more territory. He swooped in like a conquistador, and she succumbed with a gasp, rocking back. “Oh. On second thought, maybe you can.” She could feel him grinning against her shoulder. “But only if you use your teeth.”

“I always use my teeth, pet.” He demonstrated on the tendon of her throat. “In fact, I…”

Willow’s voice echoed down the open manhole, interrupting him. “Hey, I’m on my way down now! Spike, would you please come put the cover back?” Her feet appeared on the top rung.

Spike disentangled himself from Buffy with remarkable speed, brushing a final kiss on her shoulder. “On my way!” he called out. Buffy stood where he had left her, feeling a little bereft and confused. Since when did he jump at Willow’s command? But there he was helping her down and climbing up the ladder to replace the cover, and Buffy could feel a definite pout coming on, because if anyone was getting waited on hand and foot by a certain vampire, it should totally be his fake wife and almost-lover.

While Spike was hefting the cover into place, Willow switched on her flashlight and joined Buffy in the tunnels. “Sorry I took so long with the spell,” she smiled gently. “I know it must have been rough on you, being all alone with Spike down here in the dark.”

“Oh, no,” Buffy reassured her. “You can take all the time you need to get things right. Longer would even have been fine.” Like an hour longer. Or five. With a five-minute warning at the end.

Willow looked at her face closely. “Are you sure you’re doing okay? I know it’s been a rough couple of days.”

Buffy sighed. “Yeah, I’m good. I just really… don’t want to go to Psychology class today.”

“Really? I thought you liked Psych. You didn’t even skip right after you dumped…”

Buffy cut in. “I did. Do. Like it. There’s just things…” …vampires…“…I’d rather be doing right at this particular moment.” She couldn’t keep from sending a covert, covetous glance at Spike’s extremely nice butt. Which she actually couldn’t see, because of the duster, but she knew it was there and very very nice, and in the meantime his shoulders were nothing to sneeze at. She reluctantly dragged her gaze back to Willow’s serious face.

Willow nodded sagely. “Sleeping. I understand perfectly.” There was something in her tone of voice that made Buffy feel there was an ironic joke hidden somewhere in there, but for the life of her she couldn’t figure out what it could be. Probably a smart-person thing that would take hours to explain and she still wouldn’t get it.

Spike rejoined them, lighting a cigarette. “Where we headed to, ladies?” He looked at Willow.

“First floor auditorium of Hastings.”

“Right. We’ll want to head that way then.” Spike gestured with his glowing cigarette.

“Okey-dokey.” Willow glanced down the tunnel and shivered dramatically. “Looks a little frigid down there.” She looked steadily at Spike. “Wouldn’t want to get all chilled. I might not be able to properly hold my PENCIL.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, face pained, and then shrugged out of his duster, cigarette clamped between thinned lips, handing the coat over to Willow with a glare. Buffy stared in disbelief.

Willow accepted it with a surprised yet benevolent nod. “I did not know you were such a gentleman, Spike. Buffy, don’t you agree? Isn’t he gentlemanly?” She slipped on the duster, which nearly reached the ground on her.

Buffy narrowed her eyes. “Yes. He is being surprisingly chivalrous.” To you.

Spike took a drag on his cigarette, not meeting Buffy’s eyes. “Know how to treat a lady, is all. Ladies come first. All that rot.” He glanced over at Buffy’s red pants, eyes hot, and she quivered.

“We do indeed.” Willow gestured down the tunnel with her flashlight, like she was signaling an airplane. “Let’s go. Professor Walsh won’t let us in if we’re late.”

Somehow, Willow ended up walking between Buffy and Spike, lightly chattering about the last Psych lecture, interesting bits of trash in the tunnel, and plans for Winter Break. Buffy smiled and nodded and made interested noises, because she couldn’t very well reach around Willow to feel up Spike like she really wanted to. Spike himself was silent, except when he asked Willow to hand him his pack of cigarettes and his lighter and his flask, which he put to frequent use as they briskly walked along.

Buffy began to wonder if telling Willow she wanted to fuck Spike’s brains out would convince the witch to leave them alone, either because she loved Buffy and wanted her to be happy and thus to get thoroughly laid, or because she could only despise a person who wanted to fuck out the brains of an evil vampire and would never want to speak to her again. Buffy honestly didn’t care which; either one would be acceptable at this point, as long as she got to be alone with Spike. But then she pictured Willow’s eyes, all teary and Bambi-esque with betrayal, and she just couldn’t do it. And then she couldn’t help remembering how solicitous Spike had been of Willow all day. She wasn’t jealous of course, because she would never get jealous over Spike, never in a million years, but something unpleasant burned right behind her eyes whenever she thought about Willow and Spike and those smiles, or she felt Spike’s duster brushing against her as Willow strode along, and she wanted to get her hands on him right then and there and make sure he didn’t have room in his tiny little vampire brain for anyone but her. It was her sacred duty – SACRED DUTY! – to protect the world, including Willow, from Spike’s evil deeds, and if that meant inviting all his naughty evilness onto her own body, well she was totally willing to fall on that sword. Over and over again. So to speak.

Then the culvert came into sight, the one she and Spike both seemed to have intriguing ideas about, and she set her jaw determinedly and hurried ahead.

“Hang on guys,” she gasped dramatically. “I just need to take a little breather.” She sat on the culvert in a pose she hoped was sexy without being desperate. Spike froze in his tracks, lifting his flask to his mouth for a long drink.

Willow checked her watch. “We don’t have that much time,” she fretted. “I want to make sure we get the good seats.”

Buffy ran a weary hand over her brow. “I know, Will. Just give me a sec.” She ran a hand through her hair, then gasped. “Oh no! My earring just fell out!” She rolled over on the culvert so she was draped across it in what she thought was exactly the pose Spike had drawn her in the day before, looking back over her shoulder suggestively. “Spike, can you help me find it?”

He was staring at her, cigarette dangling forgotten from his lip. She twitched her behind. His eye twitched in response.

Willow rolled her eyes, smiling indulgently. “I’m going to walk a bit ahead. Catch up with me when you’re done… resting. Don’t make us late.” She strolled on down the tunnel, flashlight bouncing along.

Spike was at Buffy’s side as soon as Willow’s flashlight disappeared around the next bend, hand curving around her ass. “You aren’t wearing earrings today, luv.”

“I know,” Buffy gasped as his hand slipped between her legs, rubbing the leather seam against her. “I lied.”

“Bad girl,” Spike growled, stepping between her ankles and planting both palms on her ass, fingers curling around her hips, thumbs stroking hard up her center.

“Yes,” Buffy managed, looking up at him through her tangled hair. “I’m very bad.”

Spike laughed harshly, spreading her thighs wide and stepping in to press against her. She tilted her hips to press back. ”Thought you wanted to savor things.”

“I do,” Buffy said. “Just wanted to remind you.”

Spike leaned forward until his front was pressed all along her spine. His hands curved around to cup her breasts. “Remind me of what?” He squeezed.

“Things.” Buffy rolled her body against his.

“Consider me reminded,” Spike ground out. “God, I want you.”

Buffy closed her eyes. “Me too,” she whispered. “I want you more than anything. Is that wrong?” She pulsed against him.

He kissed the back of her neck. “Probably.”

“I don’t think I care.”

“Neither do I.” They curled around each other in the dark, both reluctant to move.

Willow’s voice echoed down the tunnel. “Hey, guys! I’m not sure where to go from here.”

“Be there in a sec!” Buffy called out, pushing back until she and Spike were both standing, his hands still clasped over her breasts. She dropped her head back against his shoulder; he kissed her temple and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her tight.

“Once more into the breach?” he murmured into her shoulder.

“What breach?” she whispered.

“It’s a quote. From Shakespeare.”

“Oh. I think I knew that. Back when I could think.” She wrapped her arms over his.

He didn’t seem to want to let her go, and she really didn’t want him to want to let her go, but Willow was waiting, so after a moment of being held, a really nice moment, Buffy stepped forward to break the embrace, keeping hold of his hand. “Tonight,” she whispered, squeezing his fingers.

He didn’t reply, but she could tell he had heard her from the hungry sound he made under his breath as he followed her towards Willow’s voice.

Willow was frowning at her watch when they caught up to her. “How long do you think it’ll take us to get there?” she asked Spike worriedly.

He squinted at their surroundings. “Maybe ten minutes from here?” he said with a twist of his mobile lips.

Willow sighed in relief. “Okay then. We should be good.” She grinned at Buffy. “Feeling better?”

“Oh, yes,” Buffy smiled. “Much better.”

Willow looked at her steadily for a long moment, long enough that Buffy started to squirm, then smiled cheekily. “Good. Let’s go make with the learning.”

Buffy sighed in relief as they continued on their way.

\---

Hastings Hall did not have a convenient sewer access in the basement, but there was a manhole just off the tiled courtyard, so they were able to make their way into the building without Spike bursting into flames. They were about to enter the classroom when Spike froze, grabbing Buffy’s arm.

Buffy frowned. The hallway seemed normal, but she could hear Professor Walsh and Riley talking just inside the lecture hall doorway. “Something wrong?”

Spike was hurriedly buttoning up his red shirt, stuffing the tails into his jeans. “Nothing, pet,” he muttered. “Just a hunch.” He flipped up his collar, then ran his fingers through his gelled hair, pulling curls down to cover his forehead. All buttoned up, he looked like an albino frat boy. Perversely, Buffy missed the retro-punk look.

Willow tugged at Buffy’s arm. “Come on, they’re going to start any minute.”

They found three seats together in the third row (Willow glanced longingly at a single space in the front row, but sighed and followed Buffy up the stairs); Buffy maneuvered herself to sit between Spike and Willow and pulled out a notebook and pencil for Spike, secretly curious as to what he would draw today. He seemed to be having trouble getting comfortable, slouching way down until his knees were jammed up against the seat in front of him and shielding his eyes with his hand. He jerked when she poked him with the pencil.

“You okay?” Buffy frowned, glancing around. “The windows aren’t too close, are they?”

Spike sank a little lower, scowling at the front of the room. “No worries there, pet. Tell you later.”

Buffy didn’t want to let it go, but she noticed that Professor Walsh and Riley were both glaring in her direction, arguing in hushed voices about something that she really hoped wasn’t her, so she slipped Spike’s notebook under his elbow with the pencil tucked in the wire spiral and sat up attentively, hoping her face looked eager-for-the-learning and not wishing-she-were-elsewhere-and-naked, or for that matter imagining-having-sex-right-there-on-Professor-Walsh’s-desk, because she somehow doubted that would earn her an A in the course.

\---

By the end of class, Buffy was finding her eager-beaver façade nearly impossible to maintain. Spike had twitched and quivered at intervals throughout the lecture, like a Chihuahua with PTSD, and had ignored her occasional footsie attempts. What was up with that? And then when he finally did start doodling in the notebook she had given him, he didn’t even have the decency to draw indecent pictures of her that she could pretend to be shocked and offended by, but instead seemed to be sketching detailed portraits of Riley and Walsh. Which did actually kind of shock and offend her. In the meantime, Professor Walsh seemed to be watching her the entire time, eyes narrow and angry, even though Buffy was totally paying attention with a smile and nodding at all the important points of the lecture as if she found them fascinating and writing busily in her notebook even when she didn’t have anything to write down and was just making loop-de-loops. So when the lecture finally concluded with an admonition to pick up the term paper rubric off the desk because Professor Walsh expected it to be followed to the letter, and no adjusting the margins to fudge the page count because she knew all the tricks, Buffy stuffed everything in her backpack willy-nilly, snatching Spike’s notebook right out from under his pencil, and surged out the door, dragging Willow and Spike in her wake, Walsh’s mean eyes piercing them as they snagged handouts off her desk.

Riley caught up to them just outside the door. “Hey, Willow! We still on for coffee tomorrow?” For some reason, he wasn’t even looking at Willow, but peering curiously at Spike, who had turned his back to stare at the brick wall, breathing deliberately and noisily. Buffy frowned. Wasn’t anyone happy to see HER today?

“Oh, yeah, sure, Riley. Coffee’s great.” Willow shrugged. “Can’t stick around today, though. There’s a Wicca group I wanted to join that meets this afternoon.”

“Sounds fun,” Riley said with an open, vague smile. “What’s Wicca?”

Willow patted him on the arm. “If you have to ask, you’re not ready to know,” she said with a straight face. “See you around, ‘kay? Oh, Buffy, almost forgot.” She stripped off the duster, handing it over. “You might need this for later. Plus I think some of the girls I’m meeting this afternoon have a thing about leather, and I wouldn’t want to start off the meeting with a ruckus.”

“Thanks, Will.” Buffy draped the coat over her arm as Willow trotted off down the hall, leaving her standing between Spike and Riley. Awkward…

Riley was looking at Spike with a frown of concentration. “So, is this a new student? I didn’t see any additions to the class roll.”

Buffy smiled breezily. “Oh, no, he was just sitting in for a bit. There’s a…thing. A thing for another class. It’s kind of complicated.” Spike turned and extended his hand for a handshake. At least she hoped it was a handshake, and not a first strike.

“Riley’s the name, eh? Ca viens?” Buffy stared at Spike. His voice was completely different, slow and drawling; he had a vaguely nervous look in his eyes, though his lips were stretched in a friendly smile. Which was a creepy, creepy look for him. Very Ted Bundy, what with his shirt all preppied-up.

Riley’s eyes were narrow and suspicious as they shook hands. “You seem very familiar. Have we met?” 

“Mais, don’t think I’d forget meeting a grand beedé like yourself.” Buffy puzzled over that. Had he just called Riley a bidet? That was an obscure insult, if so. Or was it some sort of ballet move? No, that was a plie. Maybe Spike had just gone completely around the bend. Possibly from not getting any; she was definitely well ahead in the Orgasm Olympics. Maybe she should have dragged him into the bathroom with her after all…

Crossing his arms, Riley looked Spike up and down intently. “You look very much like… someone I saw the other night. At work.”

Spike waved his hands dismissively at Riley. Did Spike usually move his hands so much when he spoke? She didn’t think so; it was disturbingly like watching a marionette show. “Go to bed! Never seen you before in my life, for true!”

And what the hell did the words coming out of his mouth even mean? “Spike, what is wrong with you? Did you huff too much cleaning fluid or something?”

Spike gave her an innocent look. “Nothing wrong with me, chér. Though I am a bit warm after our picnic on the sunny sunny lawn.” Wow. That was… not even remotely connected to reality. But the look on his face was more desperate than delusional, so Buffy shrugged and decided to play along for the moment and get a translation later.

“Oh, so this is Spike?” Riley puffed out his chest a bit, stretching a bit taller. Which was just crazy tall; Buffy’s neck hurt trying to look up at his face. “He doesn’t seem so old.” Somehow ‘old’ sounded like Riley really meant ‘tall.’

“Oh, he’s not THAT old. Just, you know, older than me.” Also taller than me.

“And much more experienced,” Spike interjected, somehow managing to convey with posture alone that ‘experienced’ really meant he was a fucking genius when it came to mind-blowing oral sex. Or that was how it looked to Buffy, who had to admit to herself that she was not an unbiased observer. Riley certainly didn’t seem intimidated by Spike’s pheromones.

“I thought you said being engaged to someone named Spike was a joke.” Riley cast Buffy an accusing look.

“Not engaged,” Spike interjected. “We’re married now, capon.”

“Married.” Riley somehow managed to look hurt and relieved at the same time.

Geez, try not to be too disappointed, yogurt-boy. “You thought I was serious when I implied I was kidding about my darling fiancé Spike?” Buffy pouted dramatically. Riley looked confused, and a little panicked.

“Ah, don’t make a bahbin, boo.” Spike slid his arm possessively around her shoulder, poking a finger at her pouty lower lip. “I’m sure the big strong MILITARY man was just engaging in a little wishful thinking, n’est-ce pas? With his fine MILITARY haircut and bearing.” He looked at her significantly. She looked back, trying to convey that she had no fucking clue what subtext he was trying to communicate to her, or in fact what TEXT he was trying to communicate to her (what the hell is a bahbin?), but she tucked an arm around his waist anyhow, sliding her hand into his opposite jeans pocket, because she was still a little miffed that Riley wasn’t more upset about her dumping him. Spike raised his eyebrows. “Careful, pet, you know I go COMMANDO.”

“Whoa, TMI, dude!” Riley raised his hands, backing off a bit with an awkward smile.

Buffy cast a significant look up at the hall clock. “ANYHOW, Spike and I have places to be. Did you need something else, Riley?”

Riley gave Spike one last look, then shrugged. “No, just… I guess I was mistaken.” He glanced out at the sunny quad. “You couldn’t possibly be who I was thinking. Sorry.”

Spike nodded affably. “De rien, bon rien.”

Riley looked confused again, but headed back into the classroom; as soon as the door closed behind him, Buffy dragged Spike over to the manhole and urged him back down into the sewers. When the cover was secured above them and they were alone in the dim tunnel, she shoved his duster at him; he slipped into it with a sigh of relief, unbuttoning his red shirt.

Buffy folded her arms impatiently. “Okay, spill. Why do you suddenly sound like Gomer Pyle?”

Spike replied in his normal voice. “Don’t talk rubbish. Jim Nabors called on his Alabama roots for that role. I, on the other hand, was speaking in a very effective Cajun accent. Ma ‘tit fille.” He quirked his eyebrows suggestively.

Buffy refused to ask what a ‘Teet-Fee’ was, but she was pretty sure it was something dirty, possibly involving boobs, from the look Spike was giving her. She was also pretty sure his ‘effective’ Cajun accent was a bit more of a ‘crappy’ Cajun accent, but she didn’t really have any evidence to go on other than her experience of Spike – admittedly pretty much a guarantee he was bullshitting – so she figured she could let that one slide, instead asking, “Where did you pick up a Cajun accent?”

Spike shrugged. “Spent a few years in Louisiana. Every vamp ends up in the Big Easy eventually nowadays. Good place to be lazy, sit around noshing on crawfish and gullible Anne Rice fans.” He caught Buffy’s disgusted look. “What, they were askin’ for it. And I mean literally, walking up to vampires and asking to be bitten. Usually didn’t even bother finishing ‘em off, just catch-and-release for the next hungry vampire. Like I said, place to be lazy. No sense spoiling the buffet. Most of ‘em kept coming back for more, too, hoping they’d find someone to turn them. Fortunately, most vamps have more sense than that. Too many Lestat wannabes walkin’ Bourbon Street already.” He looked at the ground; if Buffy didn’t know better, she’d think he was ashamed. “Food’s good down there. Real spicy. You want, we could do a road trip sometime. You could shut down the vamp soup kitchen… Treat you to some real jambalaya. Know a place.”

“You want to go on a slaying road trip?” Disbelief warred with disgust on Buffy’s face.

“You don’t like what happens there, you’re the one to take care of it, yeah? And you can get hot beignets after patrol, any time of night. Lots of powdered sugar.” He slanted a glance up at her. His eyes were nearly black in the gloom.

Beignets sounded like something tasty, and the very thought of powdered sugar made her legs quiver in some kind of Pavlovian sexual response, but Buffy couldn’t quite shake the memory of Ford and his herd of clueless vampire groupies, waiting in their basement for Spike’s gang. “Even if they literally ask for it, it’s creepy and gross, and it’s my job to stop it from happening.”

“Wouldn’t do it now,” Spike mumbled, fiddling with his lighter.

“Yes, you would if you could,” Buffy sighed. “Don’t lie just to make me feel better.”

“Well.” Spike shrugged again. “Maybe I would then. Might not. Depends.” He looked at her cautiously.

Buffy closed her eyes for a moment. “Spike, it’s not like I don’t already know what you are, or what you’ve done. It’s just… It’s complicated. But I’m not in the business of revenge. I’m all about protection. As long as you can’t harm the human population, you’re safe from me.” She fixed him with a steely glare. “You get your chip out, or it stops working, then you know I can’t let you live.”

“And you know if I do get my chip out, first thing I’ll do is to come after you. None of this torturing-your-friends’-goldfish rot, either. I’ll come straight to you, and we’ll have this out once and for all.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

They stood silently in the darkness for a long while, looking at each other’s feet.

Finally, Buffy heaved a huge sigh. “So.”

“We good then?” Spike looked up at her, shadowed face oddly vulnerable.

“Yeah, I guess. As good as we ever are.” Buffy flipped on her flashlight and started walking down the tunnel in what she thought was the direction of Giles’s apartment. Spike fell in beside her, hands stuffed in his pockets.

After a while, Spike spoke as if their awkward interlude had never happened. “You’d like New Orleans. Good hunting, good dancing, good food, good music. Have to drive across Texas, o’ course, but as long as you stay clear of the dry counties…”

“Are you back on the Slayer Road Trip thing again? In case you hadn’t heard, I’m on assignment at the Hellmouth. I don’t get vacation time. Also, you never answered my question.” Buffy walked a little bit faster.

“…Where’d I pick up the accent? Thought I covered that, and you weren’t especially keen on my answer. Hence the uncomfortable moment.” Spike lengthened his stride to keep up with her.

“No, before that. WHY did you suddenly go all faux-bayou?”

Spike glared at her. “I was trying to tell you. That fellow, the tall one with all the friendly smiles. He’s one of the ones that nabbed me.”

“Riley?” Buffy stopped abruptly. “You think Riley’s one of the commandos?”

“Don’t think it, Slayer. Damn sure of it. Recognized his voice from the night it happened. He was the one giving orders and reporting back on the radio. I was all paralyzed from the tasers, but didn’t affect my hearing any.”

Buffy laughed. “You have got to be joking. Riley’s a doofus, not some super-secret soldier.”

Spike’s jaw twitched in irritation. “Not joking. And that’s not all. That professor? She was there too. Not when they captured me, but later on, down in the prison. Remember her voice too, kind of vague. Think she was there when they were cutting on me.” He shuddered. “Called up all sorts of nasty impressions.”

Okay, now THAT Buffy had no trouble believing. “Wow.”

Spike pulled out a cigarette and lit it; Buffy noticed his hands were trembling, which made her unaccountably angry at Walsh, who didn’t have the right to make her vampire quiver with pain or anything else. That was Buffy’s prerogative.

“Well, you won’t have to deal with them again,” she consoled him. Which felt weird, consoling a vampire, but he was basically hers after all, to kill or console if she wanted to, and she wanted to console. “Last class before winter break, and we had goddamn well better get rid of these anklets before vacation’s over.”

“That eager to get rid of me, luv?” Spike nudged at a rock with his foot.

“No, of course not!” Buffy said quickly, then sighed, because there was no ‘of course not’ about it. She began again, voice calm. “No. I should be, but I’m not. I… I don’t want you to go anywhere.” Spike looked sidelong at her, silently exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I would, however, like to be able to occasionally go shopping, or to the beach, or even sleep in the dorm room I’m paying through the nose for without having to smuggle you in under a burning blanket.” She shrugged, smiling wryly. “And sometimes a girl just needs a little privacy, you know? I’m sure you’d like to be able to stay in and watch your soaps instead of coming with me to class.”

Spike jerked his head up at that. “Fuck. What time is it?”

“About one-thirty? Maybe a bit later?”

Spike tossed his cigarette aside, grabbed Buffy’s hand, and started off down the tunnel again, walking fast. “Can still make it if we go now.”

Buffy dragged her feet, miffed. “You have me alone in the dark, and you’re running off to watch a stupid soap opera? Why did I even wear these pants?”

Spike spun around and kissed her hard, hands laced into her hair, then buried his head in her shoulder. “FUCK, Buffy. I have no bloody idea what you want right now. I thought you were pissed off at me and we were headed home. Are we back to snogging now? Because I can do that.”

“I don’t know,” Buffy sniffled, suddenly feeling lost. “I don’t know what I’m feeling right now, because every time you open your stupid mouth it changes.”

Spike pulled back to look at her face, eyes soft, and she suddenly realized that he had barely looked at her face all day, even when they were all over each other, not really looking the way he was now, and she had missed it. Right now, in the quiet dark, the only light the flashlight dangling from her hand, he looked tender and worried and affectionate and afraid, none of which were words she would ever think to associate with Spike, and she dreamily tilted her chin up to meet his soft, soft lips, rising on tiptoe, and she dropped the flashlight so she could lace her fingers together with his, arms straight down at their sides, and they kissed and kissed until she wasn’t lost any more.

When the kiss faded away, natural as breathing, she pressed her forehead to his and sighed, not letting go of his hands. “We can go watch your soap opera. Giles still hasn’t quite mastered the VCR, and you already missed yesterday.”

“We don’t have to,” Spike murmured.

“No, let’s go home.” She looked up at him with purpose in her eyes. “It’s been a long day, we have a long night ahead of us, and I’m tired of this sewer. But I’m not mad at you. I just want to go home.”

Spike’s hands gripped hers tightly for a moment more, and he started to walk backwards down the tunnel, tugging her along with him, eyes locked on hers. “I think you’d like Passions. It’s got brilliant dialogue.”

“Wait a sec.” Buffy pulled her hands away from his, smiling reassuringly at his sudden look of hurt. She scooped up the flashlight and trotted back up next to him, taking up his hand and lacing her fingers into his again. He looked down at her with an odd, hopeful half-smile as they started walking again side by side. “I dunno about that show,” Buffy said dubiously. “Timmy kinda creeps me out.”

“Oh, Timmy’s the best part!” Spike enthused. “You just have to watch from the beginning, get a feel for his place in the world…” He continued into a vigorous description of Timmy’s origin story, which Buffy really didn’t understand at all.

But she leaned in to him as they walked, and he squeezed her hand in return, and she thought maybe she understood that at least.

\---

They managed to dash in the door of Giles’s apartment just in time to save him from the dread VCR, even after stopping at the drugstore to buy a new alarm clock at Buffy’s insistence. Giles looked like he wanted to talk research, so Buffy quickly snatched up a plate of cookies as a shield, joining Spike on the couch and letting him explain what was happening on the show instead. With a resigned sigh, Giles came and sat between them, helping himself to a few cookies that he dunked in his Scotch. Buffy quickly realized that she had never really experienced true awkwardness until that moment, sitting on the couch with Spike and Giles watching Passions, and then had to further refine her awkwardness definition a few minutes later when some of the characters started in on some serious smoochyface and Giles and Spike started a Serious Discussion about the ramifications of said smooches. Though Buffy suspected she might be able to use Giles’s surprisingly encyclopedic knowledge of Passions as blackmail material at some future date.

When the credits rolled, Buffy left Spike and Giles to their debate (which had gotten heated; she suspected that Spike was being contrary on purpose to piss Giles off, because Spike) and straightened up the spare room, changing the sheets and starting up a load of laundry. That killed… a whopping fifteen minutes. God, how long was it until sunset? She could hear Giles banging pots about in the kitchen now, which hopefully meant he and Spike had reached a truce, and she further hoped meant they were in different rooms, so that she could entertain herself by getting Spike all worked up for patrol. Speaking of which… She rummaged in her overnight bag, grinning when she found what she wanted. Time to suit up for battle.

\---

Spike was back to being bored; even pissing off the Watcher had provided only a smidgen of entertainment, because Giles was so bloody predictable in his tastes. He could hear Buffy puttering around in the bathroom, but the truce from the tunnel felt fragile and unreal now, and he admitted to himself (though he would never admit it to anyone else) that he was still terrified of whatever was going on, and possibly more terrified at the possibility of actually figuring out what was going on because then he would have to deal with it, and so he sat on the couch and drank Giles’s cheaper liquor and waited for sunset.

After a bit, Buffy came out of the bedroom, chatting briefly with Giles about dinner. Spike glared at the dark TV and took another good swig of cognac, because she sounded chipper and perky and not confused at all, which was fucking unfair. Then she rounded the couch and stood between him and the TV set, fists on her hips, and he stared.

His first response was disappointment that she had changed out of the red leather pants, because he had grown very fond of them over the course of the day, but his second thought was BOOTS! and that more than made up for the pants, because they were black and stompy, hugging her calves snugly, with chunky heels and a silver zipper and a little dangly hint of chain, and as his gaze traveled slowly up her legs he realized he could see a lot more leg than he had expected, bare and golden and smooth above the boots, all the way up to a tiny flirty red miniskirt that barely reached the top of her thighs. She was wearing the same clinging black top as before, but she seemed to have tugged the neckline down farther, so that he could see a hint of her red lace bra peeping out, and she had swept her hair back into a loose bun, and then he reached her eyes, blazing with pure feminine knowledge, and that was it for him, his terror all washed away by sheer lust.

“So, Spike,” Buffy grinned, voice hard. “You going to help me out on patrol tonight?”

Spike swallowed, mouth dry. “Yeah, all right,” he managed in a bored voice.

She lifted one leg, setting her booted foot on the edge of the couch between his knees. The anklet winked merrily at him. “You’re not going to give me any trouble, are you?”

Spike tilted his head to try and see up her skirt. “No promises there, luv.” He ran a hand down his chest sensually.

Buffy tossed her head; a few tendrils of hair wafted free around her flushed face. “Just so you remember who’s in charge. Don’t make me hurt you.” She smiled wickedly, then stepped closer, until she was right up between his knees. His hands twitched with the effort of not touching. She leaned in to whisper right in his ear. “Also, I have a present for you.” One of her fisted hands slid into the pocket of his duster, coming out open and empty.

“Buffy, do stop taunting Spike,” Giles called out from the kitchen.

“Sure thing, Giles!” Buffy chirped, stepping around the couch. “Would you like me to do some cleaning before I go out on patrol? I hate to feel like a mooch.”

“Oh, there’s no need…”

“No, I insist.”

Spike slid his hand into his pocket, encountering something rough and scratchy and a little damp. He risked a glance down. Red lace. Oh, GOD.

Buffy reappeared around the couch, feather duster in hand. “Gosh, Giles, don’t you ever dust?” She swept the duster along the top of the TV, then bent over to swish at the VCR, the hem of her skirt rising up and up…

Spike clutched reflexively at the scrap of red lace, trying very hard not to actually drool. He leaned in for a better look; Buffy straightened suddenly and swished the duster across his face. “Be good, Spike,” she admonished with a stern look, then went to dust Giles’s shelves. The very top ones. On tiptoe.

Spike took another drink of cognac and sank deeper into the couch, eyes following Buffy’s every move. After all, to do otherwise would be the mark of a cad. Which, well, he sometimes was. But not today.

And at least he was sure as fuck no longer bored.

\---

Giles and Spike resumed their passionate Passions argument over dinner, which would have driven Buffy crazy if she weren’t too relieved at the distraction. As it turned out, walking around with no underwear for an extended period of time, while definitely paying off in the driving-Spike-nuts department, was not an especially comfortable state, especially when Giles tried to get her to talk slayer business at his desk while Spike sat on the couch nonchalantly fanning the VCR manual to send a breeze up the back of her thighs. But finally the sun was down, dinner hastily consumed, and she could hustle Spike out the door.

Before they even made it out of the courtyard, Spike tugged her out of sight of the window, sliding his hands up her skirt and over her bare ass. “Thought you wanted me to use my teeth,” he muttered, dropping to his knees.

“You still can,” Buffy gasped as he flipped up her skirt, exposing her to the air. He growled and hooked one of her thighs over his shoulder, diving in with a long stroke of his tongue. She fell back against the wall and let him have his wicked, wicked way for a moment, then resolutely pushed his head away. “Not here.”

Spike glared up at her darkly. “You are a cruel, cruel woman.”

Buffy took his hands and pulled him to his feet. “I thought that was what you liked about me.”

He grinned. “One of the things, yeah.” He closed his eyes and visibly struggled to regain control. “Right. Patrol first, yeah? Where we starting tonight, Restfield?”

“No,” Buffy bit out, dragging Spike out of the courtyard. “We are not going to patrol Restfield tonight.”

Spike jogged to keep up with her brisk stride. “Rosedale, then? Or you want to hit the big one first?”

Buffy slammed Spike up against a nearby maple tree, hands fisted in the lapels of his duster. His eyes flared hungrily. “We are not going to patrol Restfield, or Rosedale, or any of the other numerous fine cemeteries of Sunnydale.” Her voice was perfectly patient and reasonable and calm, but she could feel the edge in it, and from the way Spike was starting to pant, so could he. She shook him a bit for emphasis. “We are going to find a place where there are NO DEMONS and NO PEOPLE and NO VAMPIRES and NO GODDAMN POLICEMEN, and we are going to FUCK.”

Spike’s mouth opened, but he seemed to be unable to speak.

Buffy set her jaw and glared at him. “Do you have a problem with this plan?”

Spike shook his head slowly. “GOD, no,” he whispered fervently.

“Good.” Buffy lifted up on her toes and kissed him gently. “Now. Where can we go to be alone?”

\---

The obvious choice was a hotel room, but as neither of them had been thinking clearly enough to remember to bring money along, that was a no-go from the start. Buffy vetoed the popular parking spot in the woods (too many people) and Spike’s suggestion of the choir loft of St. Peter’s Catholic Church made Buffy roll her eyes. (Also, too many demons.) They hurried past the abandoned mansion on Crawford Street with no comment. Finally they agreed on a crypt that Spike had been eyeing as a possible new home; it was dusty and cobwebby, but at least it had a door and several useful flat surfaces, and was not currently occupied by anything alive or undead.

By the time they slammed the crypt door behind them, they were both shaking, and for a moment they just wrapped their arms around each other and stood there, vibrating with desire.

“This is weird,” Buffy finally said.

“Yeah,” Spike agreed. But then he tilted her face up and kissed her, the sweetest morsel of a kiss, and it was like the start of an avalanche, hands and lips and bodies straining to touch everywhere at once. Buffy fell against the wall in a cloud of dust, dragging Spike with her, and he slid his big hands up under her skirt, hiking her leg up to his hip and stroking a single firm finger through her wetness. “God, you’re perfect,” he muttered.

“I know,” Buffy laughed, kissing along his collarbone.

“And so fucking modest,” Spike growled, catching her earlobe in his teeth as he stroked harder. Buffy shook against him, burying her face in his chest. “Like that, do we?”

Buffy nodded, rubbing her face against his T-shirt. “Don’t stop.”

Spike laughed and did something with his fingertips, something evil, she couldn’t tell what, but it sent her right over the edge, and she felt a guttural cry come out of her mouth as she came, and her eyes opened wide in surprise, and she looked over Spike’s shoulder, right into the shocked yellow eyes of a pudgy jockish vampire in a Sunnydale High letterman’s jacket. She shoved at Spike’s shoulders. “Behind you!”

“Bugger!” Spike cursed, dropping Buffy against the wall and lashing out with a backhand. “Tell me you brought a stake.”

Buffy shook her head, springing forward to shove her elbow into the former-football-player’s stomach. “Only one stake I was interested in tonight,” she quipped, flashing him a grin.

“Right then.” Spike tried to dart behind their opponent, but was caught with a flailing fist and went crashing into the door. “Think you can distract him a bit?”

“I think so,” Buffy grinned, and lashed out with a high kick. The vampire’s yellow eyes bugged out as her skirt flashed up, and he forgot to dodge, taking her foot right in the center of his forehead and staggering back.

Spike caught the stunned vamp, staring at Buffy in awe. “God, do that again,” he breathed.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Didn’t you have some cunning plan that I was distracting this guy for?”

“Oh, yeah.” Spike shook himself and grabbed the vampire’s head, twisting it off. The dust hadn’t even settled before he was down on his knees in front of Buffy, swooping his hands in around her legs to grab her bare ass and spread her thighs wide so he could delve his tongue right into her center. “That was so fucking hot,” he muttered against her.

Her knees went weak and she curled over, clutching at his head and his back. He groaned and managed to shove her up onto the edge of the crypt’s stone sarcophagus, devouring her the whole time; she arched back until she was lying on her back, eyes struggling to focus on the cobwebs above as her boots thumped against Spike’s back with each quiver and cry he coaxed from her with his incredible mouth.

But she wanted more tonight, she wanted everything, and she tugged at his shirt and duster and hair until he glided up along her body to kiss her openmouthed, tongue lazily tangling with hers, and she tasted herself on his lips and realized she tasted fucking fabulous, she tasted like a goddess, and she was about to roll him over and see how fabulous he tasted under his jeans, when the door creaked open again and another vampire walked in like it was Grand Central Fucking Station and she had to shove Spike off again, and this time she just kicked the vampire’s head clean off, because this was just getting ridiculous, and vampires should know better than to interfere with the Slayer’s sex life, because frustrated lust was giving her the strength of madness.

“GODDAMMIT!” she yelled as the dust settled, and Spike laughed and laughed from the side of the sarcophagus where she had shoved him, and then they were hand in hand and running into the woods, because obviously the crypt was not going to work after all.

They came to a clearing, the moon just barely peeking through the trees; Buffy pushed Spike up against a huge tree trunk and covered his mouth with her hand and listened intently for the sounds of pursuit, but the woods were silent around them except for the ordinary sounds of insects and maybe an owl, which Buffy decided she could allow to live as long as it stayed the hell away. Buffy’s hands shook as she fumbled at Spike’s belt, and he groaned in anticipation and pulled the rest of her hair out of her disheveled bun as she sank to her knees and took him into her mouth hungrily, not even caring in the heat of the moment that she had never done this before and she was not entirely sure what to do, but anyhow from the way he was appreciatively stroking her hair and murmuring encouragement she seemed to be doing something that he liked. He tasted wonderful, clean and salty, and she loved the silky texture of his skin under her tongue; she tried something different, gently sliding her teeth along his length, and from the way he cursed and shuddered she guessed he liked that a lot, so she tried it again, and then she had another idea for something to do with her tongue, and he liked that even more, and she felt powerful and beautiful and divine as she slipped her hands around onto his smooth ass so the bark of the tree was digging into her knuckles and gorged herself on his beautiful thick cock, until he suddenly pushed her away with a furious curse and with his bare hands tore out the throat of a nasty green demon that had been sneaking up behind her. She rolled to her feet, spying more demons creeping towards them through the trees, and sank into a deep, furious ready stance in front of Spike, wiping off her mouth, while he hastily tugged his jeans back up and buttoned them, yanking his belt out of the loops.

“Jesus H. Tapdancing CHRIST,” Buffy snarled as she leapt into battle. “Is there a vast demonic conspiracy against us getting laid?”

Spike whipped his belt around him like a flail, catching one of the demons in the throat. “Think we’re just lucky,” he grunted. “I feel pretty damn lucky every time you kick one of these bastards in the face.”

“Like this?” Buffy unleashed a powerful roundhouse at a demon that had slipped between them, knocking it into a tree; Spike shuddered deliciously at the sight.

“Yeah,” he sighed happily, wrapping his belt around another demon’s neck and twisting until bones snapped and the demon went limp. Buffy grinned fiercely as they continued to fight.

Then they were surrounded by green corpses, both of them gasping and heaving and raging with adrenaline, and Buffy wanted Spike right then and there, but the corpses were a bit on the stinky side, so she took Spike’s hand again and ran and ran, dodging in and out of trees, until they burst out into the cool clear air, stars and the moon bright overhead, and there was a wall right in front of her, which was PERFECT. She spun so that Spike could slam her into the wall – he winced as his chip fired – and she wrapped her legs around his hips and slid her hands down between them to unfasten his pants again, and his cock was cool and hard in her hands, and she slid up and then down until he was finally finally FINALLY inside her. He froze, and they stared at each other for a moment in the cool moonlight, and there was something in Spike’s dark eyes that made Buffy want to cry, so she kissed him tenderly, and started to rise and fall against him, and he ground his eyes shut and held tight to her ass and began to pound in to her, the wall at her back shaking with each thrust, and she threw her head back and looked up at the stars, and came with a gasp at the perfect beauty of everything.

Spike laughed and muttered something into her throat and thrust harder, which was good by her because she had figured out by now that multiple orgasms were her goddamn right as a Sex Goddess, and fucking Spike felt so incredibly good that she would be okay with going all night, which he could probably do since he wasn’t human, and maybe he could actually keep up with her instead of wearing out too soon, which was a revelation indeed.

Then there was a loud splintering sound, and Buffy was tumbling backwards, momentarily afraid that she would hit her head, but Spike broke their fall with his hands, grunting briefly in pain before making use of his newfound leverage to drive even deeper, pushing her knees up towards her shoulders, which felt fantastic. Buffy wondered briefly about the wall then, because it seemed strange that there would be a wall out in the middle of the woods, apparently attached to nothing, but it was not nearly as important to her as the delicious feel of Spike inside her, and so she rolled him over so that she was on top, and laced her fingers into his and held them over his head as she slid up and down his cock, and his eyes rolled up into his head so she was pretty sure he liked that a lot, which was a good thing because she also liked it a lot. She shoved his hands up under her shirt, and he eagerly rubbed her nipples through the rough lace of her bra, and she curled forward and shoved his shirt up and bit his nipple, and he shouted and came inside her, eyes wide and honest and somehow adoring, and then his hands slid between them and pressed hard, just there, and she came again, collapsing forward onto his chest.

They lay there for a long moment, gasping and shaking, trembling hands stroking hair and backs and arms, and Buffy slid her face up to his and they kissed sweetly, and then they somehow both started laughing.

“That was insane,” Buffy giggled against Spike’s shirt.

“Least it wasn’t boring,” Spike chuckled roughly. He kissed the top of her head. “Knew it wouldn’t be.”

“Yeah, next time let’s try it without the hostile audience.” Buffy sat up with a sigh, looking at their surroundings. She frowned. Was that a road? “Where are we?”

“Dunno,” Spike said unevenly, looking around in a daze. “Wasn’t exactly paying attention.”

Buffy reluctantly disengaged, standing up and twitching her clothes into a semblance of order. “I think we made it out to the highway. Isn’t that the highway?”

Spike rolled loosely to his feet, matter-of-factly fastening his jeans. “Huh. Yeah, this is right at the edge of town.”

Buffy frowned at the wall they had knocked down, a smooth expanse of fresh new wood, not even the tiniest bit weathered, that had once been supported by a pair of four-by-fours. “This really is a weird place for a wall. Or is it a billboard?”

“Don’t think it’s big enough, luv.” Spike stomped his foot on the flat surface, leaving a dirty boot print.

The two of them stepped off the demolished wall, and Buffy leaned down to tilt it back up on its splintered supports.

WELCOME TO SUNNYDALE! the brand-spanking-new sign proclaimed in fresh, clean paint.

Then a siren sounded behind them, and red and blue lights flashed, and Buffy let the sign fall with a sigh.

“Bugger,” Spike muttered.

 

End Chapter 7

 

Chapter 7 Author’s Notes

In the process of researching another fic, I learned that several California universities work on a nonstandard schedule, in which the fall term does not end until late January, and have used that schedule here for purely selfish plot reasons. For the curious, this would set “Hush” after the holidays, if I were doing “Hush,” which I’m not.

Thank to http://louisianacajunslang.com/language.html for listing tons of fun Cajun expressions to liberally lard Spike’s awful faux-Cajun speech with. (Spike may have been overacting a skosh.) James usually says he auditioned for Spike with a Southern accent (as well as North London), but on occasion has said Louisiana or Cajun – thanks to www.jamesdb.com for compiling a slew of James’s descriptions of his audition. Most of the terms are pretty obvious from context, but “grand beedé” means a big, clumsy man, “capon” is a coward, “bon rien” is a good-for-nothing, and “ma ‘tit fille” means “my little girl,” a term of affection in the song by the same name performed by Buckwheat Zydeco. (On the playlist!)

Gratuitous quotes (or near-quotes) from: Rock and Rule, Seinfeld


	8. Infatuation

Buffy knew that as a law-abiding citizen of Sunnydale, and a bona-fide representative of the Powers That Be on the side of the white hats, she should turn around with her hands up, cooperate with the authorities, and gladly pay for the damage to the “Welcome to Sunnydale” sign. And she would have, she really would have, Slayer’s Honor, except for one crucial detail.

Her red lace thong panties were in the pocket of Spike’s duster.

The second the siren sounded behind her, she had had a vision – a premonition, as it were – of being searched at the police station by a Spike Fan Club Officer, who would of course discover her lack of underwear (not to even mention her general just-righteously-fucked funk) at about the same time said underwear were dramatically pulled from Spike’s pocket. Which was not only the most embarrassing thing she could possibly imagine, but also might lead to her dying under unusual circumstances while in police custody, because she had learned by now that Spike’s fans at the SPD were REALLY FUCKING SCARY. She was fairly certain she would be dead already if her general pissed-off attitude at the station hadn’t implied she was more-than-ready to set Spike free to wallow in his fan club’s adoration. Genuine public proof of vigorous sexcapades would be like sticking her own head in the guillotine. She liked her head where it was, and she was pretty sure Spike liked it there too. Especially when her head was at about the level of his waist.

And so she didn’t even wait for the police car to come to a stop, but grabbed Spike’s hand and dashed for the safety of the woods, towing him behind her.

There were shouts, and waving flashlights, and the sound of running feet in their wake, but she was confident in her ability to outrun any member of the donut-fed Sunnydale Police Department, and she was pretty sure Spike could too, and if he couldn’t then she was going to fucking CARRY HIM, because she might dust Giles’s apartment in no underwear, and patrol in no underwear, and high kick vamps in the forehead in no underwear, and maybe even go to the Bronze in no underwear (because she thought that would be an awesome way to tease Spike) but she was NOT IN A MILLION YEARS going to jail in no underwear.

She had STANDARDS.

\---

Spike wasn’t entirely sure what had changed in the past slightly-less-than-twenty-four-hours to turn Buffy from a goody-two-shoes-rules-follower to a genuine rebel-against-authority-fugitive, but he was not going to complain. In fact, as they dashed through the woods, he rather felt puffed up with pride, because odds were excellent that his influence was the deciding factor, which was all sorts of flattering to his ego. It was like the power of his mighty penis had transformed the Slayer. At least that was the way he was going to interpret it, deep in the depths of his mind, where the Slayer couldn’t possibly hear and kill him for it.

Also, Buffy’s luscious bare ass was clearly visible beneath her wind-whipped red miniskirt as they ran, and that was a glorious, glorious thing.

When the sounds of pursuit had died off behind them, Buffy slowed and finally came to a stop, which was a lovely opportunity to cup said gorgeous ass in his hands. She sighed in exasperation, but pushed back to encourage him at the same time, so he grasped her hips and pushed his Mighty Transformative Cock up against her, just in case she was all ready for another go. Because he certainly was.

“Spike, this is so not the time,” she sighed, rubbing needily against him.

“Never is,” Spike rumbled into her ear, sliding his hands around to explore her delicious wet quim. Ah, yes. Perfect.

Buffy leaned against him in surrender, reaching down to guide his hands precisely where she wanted them. “How the hell did they find us so quickly?” she moaned. “We were out in the middle of nowhere!”

“Dunno, luv.” Spike ran his teeth along the curve of her shoulder. “Not like they have tracking devices or…” His voice trailed off, and they both looked down at their ankles. The anklets blinked up at them cheerily. Sinisterly. Treacherously. “Fuck.”

“Oh my God, do you think they’re tracking us right now?” Buffy was obviously on the brink of panic, but she was also writhing hungrily against him; he was not the smartest vampire of all time, but he could recognize a not-so-subtle hint when he saw one, and fell to his knees.

“Probably,” he muttered. “Lean forward, pet.” She bent at the hips, clutching at the trunk of a tree, and he rewarded her with a lavish application of his tongue. She tasted even better than before, like both of them mingled together, like triumph; he groaned and spread her wider so that he could savor the victory feast.

“Oh, God.” Buffy was shaking, pressing her face against the bark of the tree. She arched back in invitation. “I don’t want to go to jail. Jail is smelly and totally not sexy.”

Spike was having trouble thinking straight, what with her glorious scent and flavour and just the feel of her, buttery and slick against his tongue, but she obviously wanted to converse, so he managed to mutter something along the lines of, “Won’t let you go to jail, Buffy,” before gliding his tongue up the crack of her ass and all up her spine and up to the back of her neck, hazily and hastily unfastening his pants so he could glide his bare hard cock in between her legs, up against all her glorious wetness.

Buffy snaked a hand down to press his cock against her as she slid along the length of him. He was soaked in an instant. “They could be on their way right now.”

“Might be,” he whispered into her hair, trembling.

“So we need to be fast,” Buffy purred in a siren’s voice, tilting her hips and guiding him into her.

He bent his knees for a better angle, and thrust fast and hard, as commanded; she pushed against the tree for leverage, shoving her hips violently against him, making delicious noises each time he filled her. When she started to lose her rhythm, he braced one hand against the tree above her head, glided the other one down to caress her as he drove into her, and that was all she needed to start convulsing around him, inhumanly strong muscles clenching so that he came too with a harsh gasp, pressing his forehead to the nape of her neck.

God, I love you, he almost said. Thankfully, his mouth was incapable of making coherent sounds, and so what came out was a strangled laugh against her back. He shuddered in love and ecstasy and complete, mind-numbing terror.

Because she could never, ever know.

\---

Buffy was pretty sure she had bark-marks on her cheek, but she didn’t care, because this being a Sex Goddess? Was the best idea she had ever idea’ed. Ideified? Whatever the correct verb was, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like she ever had to take the SAT’s again.

Spike was stroking her hair gently but firmly, like he was soothing a tiger, his face buried in her shoulder blade, and she guessed she needed to be soothed, so she let him pet her for a bit, but gradually she came to the realization that bent double leaning on a tree with a solid-muscle vampire collapsed over her back was not especially comfortable, even with Slayer strength, and also maybe they should worry again about the policemen and the trackers, because she still wasn’t wearing underpants, and she wasn’t about to put them on now just to take them off again in a few minutes when she and Spike succumbed to lust once more. Which she highly suspected they would do. Really soon. Maybe now, if she didn’t take action.

So she eased back up to standing, regretfully, turning to rub her sweaty face against Spike’s rumpled shirt. He slid his arms around her, hiding his face in her shoulder; he was shaking like a leaf, and she was too, but somehow when they were snug up against each other the trembling slid away, leaving behind pure calm, an oasis of peace in the still, dark woods.

“We have to go,” Buffy whispered reluctantly. “They’re probably already on their way.”

“Where?” Spike sighed. His voice was rough.

“Probably back to Giles’s place,” Buffy said with a wry twist of her lips. “At least there we can change and shower.” Buffy looked over Spike’s shoulder, and saw a wink of light, back the way they had come. A flashlight. “And, uh, I think we should go NOW.”

They started running. Again. This was not, Buffy thought regretfully, a good way to break in her new boots.

\---

Giles sighed in contentment as he set the last of his freshly-washed dishes in the dish drainer, drying his hands on a towel and admiring his pristine kitchen. It was lovely to have a few hours of privacy and peace, because while he was devoted to his calling and his charge – devoted enough to stay and live off of capital (!) despite his lack of official employment – he did occasionally need a break. No offense to the Powers That Be (who chose the Slayer) or to Buffy (who was in fact a remarkable Slayer, well worthy of being Chosen), but teenagers were bloody exhausting. (He still held out a vain hope that things would improve in that regard when Buffy turned twenty in just over a year, but he suspected Buffy’s twenties would merely increase his exhaustion by an order of magnitude. She was indeed unique in the world.)

He was also weary of Spike’s insistence that Theresa was destined to marry Ethan, when it was as plain as day that Theresa was a psychotic stalker just trying to destroy the forever love of Ethan and Gwen. It was almost as ludicrous as his insistence that one day Timmy would become a real boy. It rather made Giles miss the days when Spike had been simply trying to kill everyone Giles loved, instead of getting him addicted to ridiculous television shows and storing blood in his refrigerator and drinking his Scotch. (Thankfully, Spike had not yet discovered Giles’s secret stash of the REALLY expensive Scotch up in his bedroom, and had been easily decoyed with the shiny decanter of Glenlivet. Amateur.)

He had just poured himself a bare finger of his favorite, a deliciously golden decades-old Mortlach with silky hints of toffee, when he heard the door slam downstairs and Buffy and Spike’s agitated voices. He sighed and set the glass aside, carefully covering it, because it sounded like he was going to need a stiff drink, and the Mortlach was not for moments when you NEEDED a drink, it was for savoring in a moment of peace and tranquility, and tranquility and Buffy could not possibly exist in the same room.

“Giles?” she shouted from downstairs, and he regretfully trudged down. She was pacing between the door and his desk, while Spike peered out the peephole.

“Coast seems clear, Slayer.”

“Keep watching. They can’t be far behind us.” Buffy was out of breath, limping slightly.

Spike nodded briskly and resumed his post, slipping his flask from his pocket for a drink.

Giles pinched the bridge of his nose. His headache was back. “Please tell me we are not anticipating an invasion of demons at any moment.”

Buffy looked up at him with one of those ineffable TEENAGER looks that could mean anything from I-broke-a-nail to we-and-the-entire-world-are-about-to-perish-horribly-in-flames. “Demons? No, no demons. It’s the POLICE!” Her voice somehow managed to cast the Sunnydale Police Department as worse than the Master and Angelus and Drusilla and the Mayor and Satan himself all rolled together, which was ludicrous on the face of it, but Buffy did rather have a flair for the dramatic.

Giles sighed in resignation. “What did you destroy now?” Definitely not Mortlach time; Giles poured himself some Glenlivet, glaring theatrically at Spike, because even though it was his decoy-Scotch, he still didn’t want the vampire thinking he could drink it ALL.

Buffy pouted at him. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Giles. As a matter of fact, we didn’t destroy anything, per se. We just kinda… knocked it down.”

“Knocked what down?” Giles gave Buffy a stern look, because she should know better than to argue semantics with him.

“The new ‘Welcome to Sunnydale’ sign.” Buffy’s voice was small.

Giles removed his glasses, fixing Buffy with a steady look. “The one they just had a special bond election to finance? The twelfth ‘Welcome to Sunnydale’ sign erected in the past three years?” Spike didn’t waver from his peephole sentry, but he seemed to be grinning proudly.

“I, uh, guess so. Unless there’s another sign on another only-highway-leading-into-town.” Buffy looked sheepish.

Giles crossed to his desk and sat down wearily. “And you managed to do this while the police were there to witness it.”

Buffy jumped, waving her hands in front of her. “Whoa, hang on. There was no witnessing. Nobody saw anything. We knocked it down, totally on accident, and then after that the police just showed up. We, um, ran away.”

Giles narrowed his eyes at Buffy over the rim of his glass. “How exactly did you manage to ‘accidentally’ knock down the sign?”

Buffy flushed deep red, eyes flickering to Spike. “SACRED DUTY, Giles. Remember that Sacred Duty I have?”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” Obviously it had involved punching Spike. Good for her.

“But Giles! I think the police are using these stupid ankle things to track us! I mean, how likely is it that they would find us twice, on two consecutive nights, right after things got broken?” Buffy started pacing again.

“It is true that the Sunnydale police have never struck me as especially observant, or for that matter competent,” Giles hedged, looking up at the ceiling.

“Can they do that? I mean, is that legal?” Buffy’s face was frantic. “Did I sign something saying they could track me?”

Giles was about to answer, when Spike whistled from the door. “Honey, they’re home.”

“Oh my God.” Buffy dashed off to the hallway. “Giles, I am getting in the shower before they drag us off to the Big House again. But don’t let them drag us off to the Big House! Please!” She disappeared. Spike watched her go with narrowed eyes, sullenly hanging his duster on the coatrack and pitching his balled-up red shirt down the hall. (Giles could only assume this was Spike’s idea of a cunning disguise.) He lay down on the couch, hands clasped behind his head, and glared darkly at the bathroom door.

Giles gave him a look of death. “Get your boots off my upholstery, Spike.” Spike ignored him, and the doorbell rang.

Resigned, Giles answered the door. Two uniformed officers stood there, one holding a ridiculous beeping plastic box with a huge antenna, the other ostentatiously holding up his badge. Lovely.

“Excuse me,” the officer with the badge said officiously. “We’re looking for Miss Buffy Summers.”

Giles looked down his nose regally. “I’m afraid Buffy Summers does not reside here.” He poshed up his accent a bit, knowing they wouldn’t recognize the nuances but would still respond viscerally to it. Americans were easy that way.

Officer Badge (he thought the name was Kemp?) riposted with classic American bullheadedness. “We have reason to believe she is currently in your apartment.” The officer with the antenna-box nodded vigorously, tilting his device from side to side and watching the display closely.

“Really? How very interesting. I should be happy to allow you to look for her, as soon as I have had a chance to examine your warrant. You do have a warrant, do you not?” Giles allowed himself to smile slightly when the officers glanced worriedly at each other, because of course they didn’t and had been counting on an uneducated, eager-to-cooperate resident willing to throw his rights away. Which is to say, somebody stupid.

Possibly-Kemp set his jaw mulishly. “We know she’s in there.”

“Ah, and how exactly do you know this?”

“We have evidence.” Both officers tried to look intimidating.

Giles tried not to laugh in their faces, because he had been intimidated by the best – or rather the worst – and still come out alive. “Indeed. And is this evidence something that would be admissible in a court of law? Not the product of, say, illegal surveillance?”

Silence. Kemp and his partner carefully kept their faces blank, which was as good as announcing on the evening news that their LEGAL evidence consisted of Diddly and Squat.

Giles smiled patronizingly. “I see. Well, I am afraid that without a warrant I cannot possibly allow you to enter and search my private residence for a non-resident acquaintance of mine. After all, any evidence discovered in the midst of an illegal search, and thus illegally seized, would be Fruit of the Poison Tree and would be swiftly thrown out of court, making the entire process a waste of the taxpayers’ funds. Do go and present your… EVIDENCE… to a judge. I am certain that if said evidence is in fact legal and sufficient, he or she will gladly grant you a warrant, at which time I too will gladly acquiesce to a legal search.”

The officers stared at him, lack of understanding clear on both faces.

Giles sighed, a deep sigh mourning the apparent demise of listening comprehension skills in America. “No warrant, no search. Good day to you.” He closed the door on their stony silence. He could feel them on the other side of the door, wanting to ring the doorbell again, but after a few more seconds he could hear them muttering to each other and stomping off through the courtyard. He returned to his desk, and lifted his glass of Glenlivet in a silent toast to the Magna Carta and the Bill of Rights, and to the value of a quality Oxford education.

Spike sat up and regarded Giles over the back of the couch. “That was a bit of all right, Watcher. I am duly impressed.”

“I cannot possibly express how deeply moved I am by your regard,” Giles replied ironically.

The vampire flopped back onto the couch, eyes boring into the bathroom door again. “’S all right. Know it’s not me you did it for. Buffy doesn’t deserve to be harassed by those wankers.”

Giles looked at him closely. “Indeed.”

Spike suddenly glared up at Giles. “Don’t go reading anything into that. Still burning with the fires of righteous hatred over here.”

“Of course,” Giles sighed. “I would expect nothing less.”

After a moment, Spike dropped his eyes and shrugged. “Still, long as I’m dealing with this chip in my head, looks like tagging along after the Slayer’s the best way to get some action. Killing action. Killing the demons. Because I can now.” He sent Giles a sidelong glance. “Could pay me for it. Keep me in smokes and blood, since I can’t exactly go stealing it now.”

“I will take it under consideration,” Giles said noncommittally, though he had been thinking along those same lines himself since he had learned of Spike’s potential usefulness.

There was a long moment of silence. Finally, Spike sighed. “Not gonna stab the Slayer in the back, if that’s on your mind. We’ve come to an agreement ‘bout what happens if – WHEN – I get this chip out.”

“Ah.” Now that was intriguing.

Unlike the policemen and Buffy and the rest of the Scoobies, Spike was clearly alert to the nuances of Giles’s voice, and grinned viciously up at him. “She’ll get her chance to stake me. Won’t make it easy on her.” He looked at the bathroom door again, a strange look on his face. “Still, expect she’ll win. She tends to do that.” He shrugged again. “Always knew I’d go out fighting. Anyhow, made her a promise, she gets first crack, no underhanded shenanigans, just her and me, face to face. I’m a right bastard, of course, but always been a man of my word.”

Giles sipped at his Scotch, regarding the vampire levelly. “Have you, indeed.”

“Well, mostly. Long as keeping my word didn’t get dull.” Spike smiled grimly, eyes riveted on the bathroom door. “No worries on that regard here. Slayer’s a lot of things, but never boring. Be glorious, facing her down.”

“I am, of course, much relieved.”

Spike glared at him again, clearly trying to gauge the precise level of sarcasm in that statement. Giles wished him luck, because he was not precisely sure of it himself. Later on, he would have to consider this conversation in more detail, try to determine precisely what was wrong with what Spike had said, because although there was a strong ring of truth – or rather, a strong lack-of-lying-tells – in their unusual dialogue, something still felt off. There was some subtext that Giles was not getting, and he was nothing if not dogged in his pursuit of complete textual and subtextual comprehension. Because he was an educated man, a man of letters, and he too had a Sacred Duty, to bend his brilliant, highly-educated mind to the protection and edification of his Slayer.

Besides, it’s not like he had anything better to do.

\---

Spike was vastly relieved when Giles finally decided to go upstairs for the night, because he was having the devil of a time trying not to drool like a lovesick puppy waiting for the Slayer to come out of the bathroom all damp and fresh and pristine, all ready to be mussed up again, and while he might be able to convince Buffy not to stake him if he accidentally let a love declaration slip out, possibly by providing a great deal of oral sex, he did not expect the Watcher to have the same sense of mercy. Or, for that matter, the same susceptibility to Spike’s tongue, however talented. Not that Spike would, because GILES. He had standards, he did.

He stayed lounging on the couch, tensely listening, until he heard Giles sit in his bedside chair with a sigh of relief and take a good drink of his Mortlach ’68. (As if Spike were unaware of the posh upstairs liquor stash! He merely had a good sense of self-preservation. Giles would absolutely be more forgiving of the relentless Slayer-shagging Spike was (unrepentantly) guilty of than of the appropriation of even a milliliter of the Mortlach, or the Glenmorag, or (Spike shuddered ecstatically at the memory, because of course he had tested the scent of each bottle) the special edition Chivas Regal. Stingy bastard.)

Still, he was fairly certain once Giles settled in for the evening, he would not come downstairs for anything less than actual warfare, with explosions, and so once the Mortlach was deployed he felt free to move at last.

He paced up and down the hall, because Buffy was taking an incredibly long shower, and he couldn’t help but imagine her, naked and wet, soaping her delicious breasts and her luscious thighs and shampooing her long blonde hair, maybe even thinking naughtily of Spike as she did it, and he had to stop and lean against the wall and take deep, deliberate breaths to calm himself, because he was starting to wonder if it was possible to dust spontaneously from the effect of all one’s borrowed blood rushing to fill one’s cock at once. Besides which, after their frantic (though incredibly hot) fucks earlier in the evening, he was feeling inclined to take it slow, slow as molasses, slow as glaciers, because he had all the time in the world, he was fucking immortal, and the Slayer wouldn’t ever know how much he loved her (he was done denying it, he wasn’t completely stupid) because she would be too busy melting under his slow relentless assault to even think about it.

He might even be able to say it, if he was very very quiet, or he waited until she was asleep, because GOD he wanted to. He wanted to feel the words cross his lips, even if she could never ever hear them, because they were true, truer than anything else in the whole lying, treacherous world, and true things needed to be spoken. He wanted to murmur them into her golden skin, breathe them into the pulse at her throat, growl them into her hot wet quim, paint them onto her body with his tongue.

Most of all, he wanted to whisper them into her ear, and feel her smile against him as she whispered them back. But he knew that would never happen, he wasn’t a complete idiot, and so he would settle for imprinting them on her body in secret ways, devoting himself to her ecstasy (and his own along the way, because he wasn’t completely selfless either, he was evil, and he was going to thoroughly enjoy fucking her six ways to Sunday for as long as she would let him), and then someday, when she was done with him, he would die at her hand. Because that was the only way this could end, and while he would fight when the time came – he wouldn’t be able to help himself, it would be fan-fucking-tastic – he knew that there was no way he would be able to end her existence, not anymore, and that would be just the edge she needed to end HIM. And he would drift away, dust in the wind, and his dust would still love her.

Sod it all, where was that notebook? He needed to write all this down.

But then the bathroom door opened, and he could feel his face brightening sappily at the very prospect of seeing her, which was not at all acceptable, so he pasted on a leer, because if the only way he could be with her was as a vaguely-despised fuck-buddy, he was by God going to play that part like he was chasing down a bloody Oscar.

Buffy was all wrapped up in a fuzzy pink robe, toweling her damp hair, all scrubbed and shiny, and she smiled up at him shyly – it was amazing how she managed to pull that off, that shy look, after fucking him with such innovative abandon not an hour before – and he dropped the leer and pressed a kiss to her forehead, because he was a terrible actor and he may as well not even try to pretend he wasn’t wrapped around her little finger. Which she could incidentally kill him with, if she wanted to. Which was really fucking hot.

“Your turn,” she said sweetly, pulling away.

He growled against her ear. “Rather take you to bed now. Nibble on your wrinkly little toes.”

She looked up at him, eyes almost crossing from the close focus on his. “No dice, buddy. You need to clean up.” She tipped up to brush her lips against his. “I can’t lick you all over if you’re DIRTY.”

Well, Spike wasn’t about to argue with that, though sometime he might have to re-educate her on the matter of dirt. Then again, as long as she was willing to be the dirty one, he would gladly be clean for her. He would be anything for her. God, he was such a fucking pathetic ponce.

He kissed her hard, holding back tears when she kissed him back, because he knew she didn’t mean it, not the way he did. “You could come in with me,” he whispered hoarsely. “Make sure I get clean enough.”

“I could do that,” she smiled wickedly. “Or I could go change into my sexiest lingerie and lounge on the fresh clean Egyptian cotton sheets in an appropriately seductive pose until you’re done.” She pouted up at him. “I just have this feeling that if I get in the shower with you, we’re going to end up having sex up against the shower wall, and, well, I’m a little worn out. What with the Sunnydale sign and the tree and all the running.” She traced a random pattern on his chest. “I want to go to BED.”

Spike thought sex against the shower wall sounded brilliant, but she was definitely wielding her insanely-strong little finger; he found himself smiling gently and bowing his head. “All right, Buffy.”

“Don’t take too long,” she said breathily, looking up at him through her lashes.

Shortest shower ever, Spike thought hazily. “Yeah,” he managed to mutter.

Buffy’s tracing finger made it down to the waistband of his jeans. “Just for the record, after you come to bed, you can take as long as you want.” Her eyes were luminous.

“Yeah?” Spike inhaled her luxurious soapy clean scent.

There was a long moment of charged silence.

Finally Buffy huffed impatiently. “So hurry up and shower already, so we can get on with the taking-our-time.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Spike kissed her briskly on the forehead, slipping into the bathroom and shutting the door firmly before he got all trapped in her sinister attraction again. Woman was a bloody black hole, way she sucked him in. And GOD if that thought didn’t just give him all sorts of wicked ideas.

He flipped on the water and ducked in, not caring about the water temperature, scrubbing at top speed everywhere he hoped she would want to lick him, which was, well, everywhere. He toweled off in a rush, and wrapped the towel around his hips, because his jeans were decidedly LESS-than-clean, and in any case the time it took to get the jeans on and then off again was time he wouldn’t be able to spend glacially worshipping Buffy’s body.

He rushed out the bathroom door.

Giles was standing in the hall.

“BLOODY HELL!” Spike yelped, stumbling back and clutching the towel more securely around his waist. It was a damn good thing his heart didn’t beat to begin with, because that would have brought on an attack right enough.

Giles was frowning meditatively down at his glass of Scotch, swirling it gently. “Spike, if you have a moment, I…” He looked up, then immediately closed his eyes, face pained. “Dear Lord, do put some trousers on.”

Spike set his jaw and grabbed his dirty clothes off the floor, shoving past Giles to get to the laundry cupboard. Thankfully, someone had run a wash after the powdered sugar incident, because he didn’t have a particularly extensive wardrobe these days. He stuffed the dirty clothes into the washer, stomping down to the end of the hall to get his red shirt. Buffy had cracked the spare room door open and was peeking out, face comically dismayed; he glared at her, and she glared back furiously, which was completely unfair because it wasn’t his fault he’d been ambushed. She should be grateful Giles hadn’t shown up after they had gotten started with the slow-as-molasses bit. He stalked back with the red shirt, stuffed it in the washer, and then – since Giles’s eyes were averted anyhow – dropped the towel and skinned into his clean jeans. “Decent now, Watcher,” he grumbled.

“I rather doubt that,” Giles said wearily, opening his eyes and glancing significantly between Spike and the washer. Spike clenched his jaw, opened the washer again to add detergent, and testily twisted the knob to get the wash going. God, this was humiliating.

Giles then looked pointedly at the wet towel on the floor.

Spike considered stuffing it in the washer as well, but it was white, and he suspected Giles would throw a conniption fit if he put it in with his darks, which would take up time better spent fucking the Slayer into oblivion, so he scooped it up and ostentatiously hung it on the towel rack in the bathroom, spreading it out carefully so as to dry efficiently, and it was clearly a sign that he was completely whipped by the Slayer, that he would put up with Giles’s fucking petty anal-retentive housekeeping demands just in hope of a few more seconds ravaging her delectable body. Though, now that he thought about it, those seconds would definitely be worth it. Every second he could steal would be worth it.

Giles seemed to be considering making a fuss about Spike’s shirtless state, but Spike didn’t give him a chance, stalking into the living room. Giles followed him and, shockingly, poured out a glass of the Glenlivet, handing it to Spike. This either meant he was planning on killing Spike immediately, and was merely offering a cup of solace to a walking dead man (or at least a walking more-dead-than-he-already-was man), or there was something the Watcher wanted. Spike accepted the glass with a nod, reflecting that it would seem a magnanimous gesture, if he didn’t know that Giles’s own glass had been refilled with the fucking Chivas. Bastard.

Spike lifted his glass in an ironic toast. “Nos morituri te salutamus.”

“I would quibble with your Latin conjugation, as you clearly are already dead, and also not to my knowledge plural, but as we both know I would be correct, perhaps we could move on to more pressing business.” Giles leaned meditatively against the wall. “I have been thinking.”

“Well, there’s a shock.” Spike sipped the Scotch, wishing he were sipping it out of Buffy’s navel.

“Earlier, you expressed an interest in providing assistance to the slayer. Might I presume that you would wish to continue doing so, even once you are no longer forced into company by your, er, civil obligations?”

Spike shrugged, feigning disinterest. “Could be convinced. If you paid me enough.”

Giles swirled his Chivas again. “Ah, yes. The question of payment. One could point out that I already pay you quite well for sitting on your ass and watching questionable daytime television. I certainly provide you with blood and shelter, and a vast quantity of alcohol.”

“Yeah, you may have complained about it once or twice. Not like I’ve had much of a choice in the matter. Being a prisoner and all.” Spike eyed the Watcher warily over the rim of his glass.

Giles smiled ironically at that. “Yes, well. Neither of us has been free in that regard. But one could make the point that you are hardly earning your keep.”

“Maybe not. Then again, going out nightly and putting myself in danger, not to mention turning my back on my life of unrepentant evil, that’s a different matter, isn’t it? Like to think that’s worth more than room and board. Can’t rightly expect me to do it just out of the evilness of my own heart.”

“Quite. I would never expect such a thing as ‘altruism’ out of you, Spike. I understand it is alien to your very nature.”

Spike was suddenly a little torn, because while he didn’t give a rat’s ass what Giles thought of him, it might be pleasant if Buffy thought well of him. She’d never love him, that was right out, but maybe she might someday… respect him? Trust him? God, just thinking about it made him want to heave at his own degeneracy. How the mighty had fallen. He was supposed to be The Big Bad. Capital-THE. It was inconceivable that he would want to help the Slayer, just to help her, just to see a little gratitude in her moss-green eyes, but fuck if that wasn’t what he wanted. Might as well stake himself right now. He would, too, if he didn’t have a lingerie-clad Slayer waiting impatiently for him in the back room.

Giles went on, unaware of Spike’s turmoil. “But let’s take, for example, tonight. You weren’t out for very long, but I was under the impression you had a productive evening?”

Spike’s mind flashed through the past few hours, all the things Giles would kill him for if he ever found out. “Uh, yeah, you could say that.”

“Well then, how many vampires did the two of you, er, slay?” Giles pulled a small notebook out of his pocket.

Oh yeah, there had been some of those. “Two. I took down one, Slayer got the other.”

Giles made a few notations. “Excellent. And were there demons as well?”

“Oh yeah, whole mess of them. Green buggers. Five? Six? Out in the woods. Think we split those up pretty evenly.”

“Green, you say?” Giles frowned and started to scan his shelves, plucking out a thick volume. “Would you describe the green as a malachite green, or more like pea soup?”

Oh, FUCK no, not RESEARCH. Spike hastily interrupted Giles before he could get too excited. “Perhaps we should wait until the Slayer’s awake, yeah? Think she might have some important observations. Wouldn’t want to leave her out of it.”

“Oh yes, quite right, quite right.” Giles regretfully set the book on his desk, caressing the worn binding. “Well, regardless, I do believe I could see my way to providing you with, well, something of a stipend. Provided Buffy is satisfied with your efforts, of course.”

Spike choked on his sip of Scotch.

Giles went on. “I am certain we can come to some sort of mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Spike’s mind raced. On the one hand, he could always use cash, especially with larceny off the table for the time being. His poker and pool winnings barely kept him in smokes, and now that he thought about it, it would be bloody hard to hustle for cash with the Slayer looking over his shoulder. On the other hand, he suspected the Slayer might get a little irate at the thought of Spike getting paid for patrols, seeing as she certainly wasn’t, and also as things stood now they were spending a goodly chunk of patrol time fucking, which would make him something of a gigolo, and while he didn’t mind that too much – he’d certainly been called worse – he thought Buffy might think less of him. On the other other hand, he could spend some of the dosh on her, buy her chocolates and panties to replace the ones he shredded and maybe furnish a cozy little love nest or take her to a posh hotel, and that might resign her to the patent unfairness of Spike getting paid for work she was expected to do gratis. On even yet still another hand, Buffy might think he was helping her just for the money and not because he had feelings for her, and wouldn’t that be bloody miserable...

Wait. Was he thinking of that one as a downside or an upside? Because now that he thought about it, if Buffy thought he was following her around because he was a greedy bastard, she was unlikely to also believe that he was following her around because he was a lovesick fool, and wasn’t that what he wanted? For her to never, ever know about his hopeless, insane infatuation?

Except what he really really wanted, most of all, was for Giles to get his tweedy ass back up to his lonely bed, so that he himself could go spend the rest of the night finding new ways to make the Slayer scream (or want to scream at least, since neither of them would want Giles crashing in to rescue her from peril), and the fastest way to get to that sweet spot was obviously to agree to everything the Watcher said. So Spike nodded amiably and lifted his glass. “Tell you what, if you come up with an offer by tomorrow, I will be more than happy to open negotiations. And because I’m such an agreeable chap, I won’t even charge you for this evening.” He grinned. “Consider it a gift of good faith.”

Giles regarded him suspiciously, but they clinked glasses to seal the deal, drinking down the last drops of their cups of good cheer, and when Spike made a show of settling in on the couch, Giles eventually puttered his way up the stairs. Spike listened sharply, and as soon as the rustle of fabric and the creak of bedsprings indicated Giles had in fact turned in, he was on his silent bare feet, creeping back to the spare room and hoping Buffy was still awake.

And she was awake, lying on her stomach and grumpily leafing through an antique-weapons catalog, which was apparently the closest thing Giles had to Cosmo. When the door creaked open, she tossed the magazine aside and hastily rearranged herself into a slinky pose. “What took you so long?” she pouted.

Spike ran his eyes up along her mostly-naked body, barely clothed in enticing scraps of black lace, and it was as if he’d taken stupid pills, washed them down with that very fine Scotch, because after all his agonizing about how SHE MUST NEVER KNOW, he could feel the words on his lips again, ready to bubble out, and he turned hastily to lock the door behind him, closing his eyes and struggling for control.

He could hear Buffy wriggling impatiently behind him, thighs whispering together like silk, and he forced a lustful grin to his face, turning and deliberately unfastening the button of his jeans. “Miss me, did you?”

Buffy oozed onto her back and stretched a leg up into the air, like a ballerina, coyly regarding her wiggling toes. “Well, these toes aren’t going to nibble on themselves.” The accursed anklet winked a merry counterpoint.

“That would be a trick,” Spike agreed, slinking to the side of the bed and taking her foot in his hand. He placed a reverent kiss in the arch, enjoying her involuntary gasp, and slid easily down onto the end of the bed. He could do this, the worshipping with his body part, as long as he kept his poncy tongue otherwise occupied with dirty talk and dirty deeds. “I’ll just start here, then, shall I? And work my way up.” He caught her pinky toe between his teeth. Her toes had been recently manicured in crimson; he had a sudden vision of her lounging naked in a nest of pillows as he painted her toenails for her, and it made him quiver.

“Wait,” Buffy whispered, pulling her foot away. Spike leaned back against the footboard, enjoying his vantage point from between her feet. He could see that the crotch of her black lace panties was already damp, just from a little toe-nibbling, deliciously molded to her contours, and he vowed to save that spot for the very last, after he had worshipped every other inch of her body, no matter how she begged for mercy. But from the look on her face, she had no intention of begging for anything, she planned to take command, and he knew the most delicious part of the evening would be the way they battled with lips and hands and teeth for the sweetest dominance ever, and it would be fucking brilliant, no matter who came out on top in the end.

But who was he kidding? She was going to win. And it would be bloody amazing when she did.

She placed her foot against his bare chest, pushing him back against the footboard with her dainty red-tipped toes, and he raised his eyebrows. “What am I waiting for, pet?” he growled.

Buffy smiled her siren’s smile. “Take off your jeans. I want you naked.” She wiggled her toes against his quivering pectoral. “Then you may commence the nibbling,” she said loftily.

Spike made a show of it, slowly teasing down his zipper and easing his cock out before lifting his hips just enough to slide the denim down past his hips and knees; he pushed them off the rest of the way with his feet, sitting up at the end to yank the tight leg off over his ankle bracelet, then lounged back along the footboard, nonchalantly displaying himself to best advantage. Buffy gleefully traced her foot all down his side, as far as she could reach, then back up his inner thighs to wiggle her toes delicately along his cock on the way back to his chest. He didn’t bother to hide his reaction, because she may as well know that he was putty in her hands, or in her toes, as it were; he gasped and swore and shook, and when her foot finally finished its torturous journey he took it worshipfully in his hands and silently told each of her toes how much he loved her, with gentle teeth and firm tongue and soft soft lips, and when her head fell back and she started to make those little sounds in the back of her throat, the ones that resonated all down his body like earthquakes, he took his life in his hands and pressed his lips to the ball of her foot and whispered “I love you,” the barest breath against her skin.

“What did you say?” she murmured, fingers tangling in the sheets as he continued his devotions.

“Nothing, pet,” he lied. And he knew that she knew that he was lying, because she always knew, but he distracted her with his wicked teeth along her sensitive arch, and she forgot all about it, and so he got to live.

And for the first time in over a hundred years, as he slid his lips up to worship Buffy’s trim ankle, Spike truly felt alive.

END CHAPTER 8

 

Chapter 8 Author’s Notes:

Shortish chapter, because I can’t get to the next good stopping point under the 15,000 word chapter limit. Giles had an awful lot more to say than I had planned. But hey! Y’all get it sooner this way!

Nos morituri te salutamus. = “We who are about to die salute you.” Latin saying frequently attributed to gladiators saluting Caesar before fighting to the death for his entertainment. The truth is a bit more muddled, but Spike is using it in the popular sense. I have no clue what would need to change for it to say “I who am already dead salute you,” but I presume Giles would know.


	9. Indoctrination

Buffy woke up with a start, convinced that she had overslept and that the police were going to raid Giles’s apartment with guns a-blazing and arrest her for felony oversleeping, but then she looked at the clock, the new clock, and realized she still had twenty minutes before she even needed to hit the snooze bar, and subsided back into her soft pillow, closing her eyes again. All these altercations with the police were making her paranoid.

She was exhausted, but she had to admit that two hours of sleep after hours of glorious sex had a totally different vibe from two hours of sleep after hours at the police station. She felt fantastic.

Spike was snuggled up against her back, arms snug around her belly, nose nuzzled in against her neck – he had roused a bit when she startled and sleepily pulled her closer – and now that she was mostly awake she could feel all sorts of little aches and twinges, but delicious aches, the kind that she had the feeling would feel so much better if she let Spike massage them away for her, and then she suddenly realized that this was her second morning in a row waking up snuggled with a man (well, vampire, but sure as hell a man-among-men in every way that counted) after a night of wanton debauchery, which was already a record for her. Go Buffy!

Last night had been… something. Something amazing, and terrifying at the same time. It was a good thing she had already taken some time to think about the ramifications of taking Spike to bed (and to Sunnydale sign, and to tree, and to several other places on the agenda for the future, some of which she had mentally starred for special attention) because otherwise she suspected the terror would have won, would have overwhelmed her, and she would have fled from Spike and from herself. And then she would have missed out on THIS, all this delectable snuggling, and that would really, really suck.

But she had thought about it, she knew what she was doing – at least as much as she could know, because Spike kept surprising her – and she wanted this. She wanted Spike. And now that she was thinking about it, thinking too much, she started to shake in a different kind of terror. What if Spike, having gotten her, didn’t want HER anymore?

The jury was still out on whether she liked him or not, but she knew for a fact she didn’t want him to leave.

Spike was still asleep, she was sure of it, but his hands moved languidly along her body, soothing her trembles away, and she pressed against him jealously, somehow knowing that the reason for his unconscious ability to pacify her was due to a certain nutso ho-bag vamp-ho who was a total ho and nutso to boot, and she wondered if Spike thought of Drusilla when he was touching her, if she was a pale substitute for his former love – which was saying a lot, because Drusilla was white and creepy as a fish’s belly – and she suddenly wanted him awake and looking at her, at HER, so that she could at least know that he knew he was snuggling BUFFY and not his former ho-bag fashion-victim paramour.

God, she was afraid.

She took his hands in hers, his beautiful strong hands, and slid one up to her breast and the other down down down between her legs, and he made a pleased noise against the nape of her neck and curled his hands in to caress her, sliding with expert precision just where she wanted him to touch, and she sighed and pressed her ass against his semi-erect cock. He started to press kisses along her neck, and she tilted her head to encourage him, and then she heard it.

“…love you.”

She froze, feeling his hands and his lips still moving but she was all made of ice now, because she knew Spike hated her, he HATED her, he had said so, and so she knew he wasn’t speaking to HER at all, that gentle murmur into her neck, he was speaking to Drusilla, and she wanted to cry, but she wanted him to look at her more, so she turned in his arms, and kissed him desperately until she knew he was awake, his hands firm at her back, and then she tucked her head into his chest and whispered, “What was that you said?”

He stiffened against her. “Did I say something?”

“Yeah. You said something.” He pressed his lips against her forehead, feverishly, and she knew he was stalling for time, so she braced herself and continued. “It sounded like you said ‘love you.’”

Spike was silent for a long moment, though his hands stroked down her back, leisurely strokes that soothed her against her will. Finally, he kissed her forehead again. “Said ‘Morning, luv,’”

God, he was lying to her. He was lying. He was the worst liar in the world. But she tucked her head more firmly under his chin, feeling tears wavering at the corners of her eyes, and let him run his hands over her body, because she knew what he was, she had always known what he was, and she had decided to sleep with him anyhow, and she was by God not going to back down now.

She gently pushed him onto his back – he went willingly, eyes flaring – and slid her body on top of him like velvet, and by now he had gone from semi-erect to hard as steel, so she slid her wetness against him, linking her fingers in his and easing his arms up over his head, and pulsed and pulsed and pulsed against him, so wet and open and ready, until finally he just slid into her, like magic, and she arched her back up and took him as deep as she could, dragging his clutching hands up to her needy breasts, and she fixed her eyes on his as she rose and fell and gasped and whimpered. Look at me, she willed him. Look at me. And she would have sworn, sworn to God if she believed in one, that he was looking at only her, that he saw only her, and she tossed her head back and impaled herself on him, hard, riding and riding until she came with an agonized cry, feeling his hands on her hips as he drove up and up and up until he found his own release, and she fell forward on him, gasping and panting and hoping he didn’t realize she was really crying.

Because even now, she didn’t trust that he was really looking at her, that he wasn’t wishing she were someone else, that he wouldn’t leave her in the end.

Please, she thought desperately. Please don’t leave me.

\---

Spike cradled her against him, mind racing in absolute terror, because his bloody stupid mouth just couldn’t stop running, couldn’t stop wanting to confess, and he had almost ruined it all, ruined his chance to fight by the Slayer’s side for as long as she could stand him, and he would be damn lucky if she didn’t rise from their bed of sin, snap a finial off the oak bedframe, and stake him then and there.

But at least he would die happy, because GOD what a night!

Making love to Buffy was just as scintillating as he had thought it would be, every inch of her perfect, even the inches he could tell – by the shy way she succumbed to his explorations – she didn’t even like about herself. He was still half-afraid he had dreamed it, how she had let him traverse the contours of her body, the joyously shocked way she had gasped whenever he found a new erogenous zone, the tender way she had opened to him like a lotus blossom. He had kissed her everywhere, absolutely everywhere, and then had fallen back in pure joy when she had mounted an exploratory expedition of her own, eyes rolling back in his head at the way her inexperienced, prodigious hands and mouth found out all his secrets. In the end the actual sex parts, the parts where he was finally inside her, were just a coda to their symphony of sexual intrigue, a soupçon of ecstasy added to the delicious feast that was The Slayer commingled with The Big Bad. Apocalyptic. A sodding Book of Revelations.

Now all that remained was for the Four Horsemen to ride in and put an end to his world.

But right at this very moment Buffy was hot and tangled and gasping on top of him, and he was still not dust, and he wrapped his arms around her and closed his eyes and inhaled her, memorizing this moment for later, wondering if the memory would persist even after he was dust and gone, a moment of pure heaven drifting through the ether.

He was suddenly grateful, grateful for the Fates that had ensured that one day he would go out in glorious battle against this Slayer, because he knew he could never bear to have the memory of this night, the gasps and moments and explorations, and not have the Slayer herself, hot and furious and demanding; he would walk out to meet the sun rather than endure a day of a world without Buffy. He didn’t care if that meant he was a ponce or a poofter or a flat-out coward. He had always been Love’s bitch, and after thirty years of life and more than a hundred years of unlife, he was a tad set in his ways; Love could fuck him up the ass or the nostrils or any other orifice it chose, and he wouldn’t care. He just wanted to stay by Buffy’s side.

Though beneath her was also good. He stroked her tangled hair and reveled in her torrid breath against his throat. Beneath her was very nice indeed.

\---

The alarm went off a few minutes later, and Buffy rolled off Spike to hit the snooze bar, letting her hair fall into her face and cover her eyes, because she was still feeling a bit weepy and she really didn’t want Spike to know, because he would ask about it, because that was how he was, he liked to put things into words, and she didn’t want to talk just yet. She stayed at the edge of the bed, staring at the glowing red numbers on the clock, and took a deep breath, because she was being stupid and needed to get her brain screwed on straight again.

She knew what regret felt like, that bitter twisting deep inside, like her intestines were staging a coup against her other internal organs, and so she knew she didn’t regret any of this. Or at least not the Spike parts. And she couldn’t lie to herself and say she had gone into this with any sort of romantic expectations. In fact, she hadn’t had any expectations at all, because she hadn’t ever thought ahead, she had just gone with the flow, tugged along by the police and college and Giles and slaying and a whole boatload of lust, anything even remotely resembling a decision pushed off to SOMEDAY. And it was easy to push things off, because her life was just one big holding pattern, just a mishmash of school-friends-slaying, and she couldn’t see how things could ever be different.

Most girls her age had a plan, or if not an actual plan then at least the vague idea of having a plan someday. Choose a college major. Have a career. Have kids. Do something, something directional, live a life that had a goal, some kind of purpose.

Buffy had a purpose, of course. She had more purpose than most. But her purpose wasn’t a thing of the future, it was all rooted in this very moment. Stake a vampire. Slay a demon. Stop an apocalypse. New monster every week. Fight and fight and fight, all in the now, and then one day lose a fight and end the now, and all without ever moving forward an inch. It didn’t matter what she majored in, or what career she thought she might want, because it was all just a mask. She was a girl in a bubble, a time bubble, and it didn’t matter how much she ran and ran and ran, how much she grew and changed and planned, she was never going to move from where she was right now.

Although where she was right now, right this very moment, didn’t actually suck, so maybe she should stop being a Drama Queen. At least until she found her tiara.

Spike had oozed up behind her, and was tracing something along her arm, like he was writing something; she glanced up briefly, just to make sure he wasn’t actually writing something obscene with one of his stupid Sharpies, and then flopped onto her back and looked at him again. He was watching his own finger along her arm, eyes barely open.

“Do you still hate me?” She blurted out the question before thinking about it.

His eyes flew wide in shock at that, looking straight into hers, and she smiled, because that was her answer right there, but she wanted to hear what he had to say anyhow, even though she hadn’t really meant to ask it in the first place, because he was a lying liar even though he sucked at it, and thus whatever he said at least would be entertaining, would cheer her up after all the depressing thinking, would help her get back to enjoying her NOW, because there was something to be said for seizing the moment. She had said that was her motto once, hadn’t she? Willow called it something else. Carpool Dio? Shar-pei Wiggins?

Spike had hastily looked back at her arm as if he had written the answer right there, crib notes for Buffy’s pop quiz; his fingertips had made it down to her wrist and tentatively curved around it. “Guess not,” he said finally, glaring at his fingers. “Should, though.” He flopped onto his own back, releasing her wrist and flinging his arm over his eyes. His other hand, the one between them, crept into hers and interlaced fingers. “Sick, twisted, and wrong, that’s what it is. Vampire of my stature not burning in righteous hatred for the pure, good Slayer. A laughingstock, that’s what I’ll be if word of this gets out.” He squeezed her hand gently.

Buffy almost said something about how she was the one who needed to keep it all secret, because she was the one who had a reputation to uphold as the Chosen One, and he was an icky gross vampire, but his hand in hers was comforting, made her feel like he didn’t plan on leaving any time soon, and she didn’t want to be mean, not now, not here in the dark. She could argue with him later; right now, she had five more minutes of snooze, and she decided she could hit a snooze button on the fighting and the arguing too, take a little time-out on being the Slayer to his vampire, and just enjoy lying here with a gorgeous man who had spent hours making her feel beautiful and desirable and was holding her hand like a precious treasure. So instead she squeezed his hand back and stared at the ceiling. “I don’t hate you either,” she confessed quietly, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

Spike shifted the arm over his eyes slightly – she thought maybe he was looking at her, there was a gap now, but the shadows were too deep for her to tell. “Feels weird,” he finally said.

“Yeah,” she said back, turning her gaze back up to the ceiling.

They lay there in silence until the alarm went off again.

\---

When the beeping started , Buffy stretched her free arm out to fumble at the clock until she had successfully snoozed it again, holding tighter to Spike’s hand as she did. “Dammit,” she sighed. “I don’t want to get up.”

Spike rolled closer, until his crotch was right up against their clasped hands. “Speak for yourself, pet. I’ve been up for a while now.”

Just like that, Buffy was hot again, curling her fingers around his cock, which was indeed ready for action. Lord, he recovered fast. She giggled, suddenly struck by the idea of a Spike action figure, with Hot Erection Power. Better than Kung-Fu Grip any day. She tightened her own mighty grip a little at the thought, rewarded by a groan and a feverish kiss, all tongues and wetness, and she moaned back. They certainly knew how to push each other’s buttons.

Spike started to slide on top of her, and she was basically okay with that in theory, but the accusing red numbers on the clock were being all judgey there in her peripheral vision, and she sighed again. “We can’t, Spike. We have to clean up and get out to scrubbing duty.”

Spike raised himself up on his elbows, pushing his cock against her greedy hand, which she had to admit was communicating something entirely different than the words coming out of her mouth. His eyes were dark and intense. “By clean up, do you mean shower? Because I will gladly… scrub your back… if you’ll scrub mine.” He leaned in and took a nip at her earlobe. “And by ‘scrub your back’ I really mean ‘cover you in suds and fuck you against the tile wall.’ Just being euphemistic, like the classy fellow I am.”

Buffy looked over at the clock, figuring. God, it was hard to do math in her head with Spike making that noise in his throat, but she supposed it was her own fault, given what she was doing to make him make that noise. She had allowed for them each to take a separate shower – because when she had set the alarm, it had been with the full intent of getting as messy as possible on Giles’s spare room bed, and she was not stupid – and if they both got in the shower together, they could shave a bit of time off, and Spike could then use that time to fuck her soapily against the tile wall, not to mention conserving water, and that was enough math for her. She looked hotly up at Spike, and whatever he saw in her eyes made his cock jerk in her hands, and he swore harshly and they tumbled off the bed together, stumbling tangled to the bathroom and inside, kissing and stroking while the water heated up, and when they were finally under the spray of the shower and Spike was smoothing soap over her hard nipples, Buffy felt ever-so-virtuous, because even though she didn’t think California was suffering from a drought just then, she was sure she had read about one somewhere in the United States, or maybe some other country with an A in it, and anyhow it was only a matter of time until California got dry again, and then wouldn’t everyone be grateful for all the water Buffy Summers was saving?

She had a Sacred Duty after all. She saved the world a LOT.

\---

They had to run to get downtown before sunrise, because as it turned out when Buffy was all covered with soap it was very difficult to get leverage against the wall, especially when Spike’s feet started to slip in the freestanding tub, so they had ended up on the floor (Buffy had turned off the water on their way down, because she was Saving The World) and then with each thrust Buffy’s slippery body had slid across the steam-slick floor like it was ice – though thankfully not as cold – until her head cracked painfully against the baseboards, and they had to stop for a bit while both she and Spike clutched their heads in agony. Finally Spike had strung together an impressive line of British curse words and turned her over onto her knees so she could brace herself against the wall with her hands, and slid his knees between hers so her thighs were spread achingly wide, and plunged into her from behind, hands feverish on her soapy breasts, and that was OH MY GOD fantastic, and they just had to slow down to savor it, shifting in tiny increments as they drummed together to find the very best angles. Spike had slid his hands back down along her soapy stomach to strum and press her clit as he stroked in and out of her, and that had been extra-fantastic, she was so hot and wet and excited and full of him that he could make her come with just the barest pressure there, little jolts of ecstasy flowing together like a string of pearls, it was like he’d found an orgasm button (Super Action Buffy Action Figure with Kung-Fu Orgasm Action!) so she didn’t want him to stop doing that, no not at all, not ever, but she did wish he had more hands because her breasts were getting a little cold and lonely, so she had reared back against him, sitting up on his lap and squeezing her own breasts with her own hands, suds oozing out between her fingers, and Spike had laughed and groaned and said dirty, dirty things, talked and talked about how beautiful and hot and desirable and perfect she was, and for once she didn’t mind that he wouldn’t ever shut up, and they weren’t even moving anymore, or barely, nothing but his busy fingers and her clutching hands and his wicked, wicked lips, naughty words dripping from them like honey, and his cock hard and thick and deep inside her, but he expertly stroked her to yet another orgasm, hard and sharp like a blade, and she added an extra oomph of Slayer strength to the joyful ripples of her deepest muscles, and he came convulsively, shaking against her, and whispered her name into her shoulder blade, lips moving silently against her after that, as if imparting a secret to her spine.

Then they finished showering in comfortable silence, hands tenderly soothing each other’s aches and bruises, both still aroused but lazy with it, sated for the moment, and then they mopped up the bathroom and got the pile of wet towels in the laundry, and it wasn’t until Buffy started to strip the bed so she could add the dirty sheets to the wash that she looked at the clock again and panicked, throwing on clothes and shoving Spike out the door.

Willow was waiting for them, circle of sand and herbs already poured out on the sidewalk, arms crossed and feet tapping in irritation, but her face softened when she saw Buffy’s damp hair – Buffy hadn’t left the house with wet hair since she was twelve – and she shook her head in resigned mockery. “I see how it is,” she scolded gently. “First day of Winter Break and you forgot to set your alarm. For shame, Buffy.”

That was of course completely false, but Buffy would rather have Willow think she was absent-minded and irresponsible than that she was the kind of girl who would make her best friend wait alone downtown on a cold dark morning when there wasn’t even any school, just so she could get in a bit more nookie, so she just nodded, trying to catch her breath. She felt a little guilty, but only a little, because she knew Willow would totally understand if she had any idea how really super-fantastic the sex had been. If Willow were the one getting super-fantastic sex for hours and hours and hours, Buffy would totally forgive HER for being a teensy-weensy bit late to an appointment, because that’s what friends were for, for letting their friends have lots and lots of super-fantastic sex and not getting judgmental about things like tardiness and bad hair and the evilness of the people with whom the sex was happening.

Spike was glancing nervously at the swiftly-lightening sky, so Buffy quickly ran over her mental list of the crap they had to clean up. “I think we should start with the church sign today,” she decided. “I’m pretty sure tonight is their Bingo night.” Willow nodded and started her final preparations.

Spike shrugged and lit up a cigarette. “If you say so,” he muttered. He glanced over at the church sign, and choked on his inhalation, swearing bitterly.

Buffy looked over, frowning. The sigil Spike had spray-painted in the middle of the church name was still vivid and red. It looked vaguely penile, which did not surprise her at all. The text on the marquee had changed since the previous day, though (it had been something about honouring God, which was obviously Spike’s dirty work because that U right in the middle of ‘honor’ was either the British spelling or the evil spelling, one of the two), and it took her a second to puzzle it out.

TRY OUR SUNDAY’S THERE BETTER THEN DAIRY QUEENS!

Spike was looking at the sign in horrified disgust. Buffy cast him an amused look. “What, too sappy for you?” she teased. “It is a church, you know.”

“Don’t bloody care how sappy they get,” Spike retorted. “They need a sodding proofreader. You think I’m evil, at least I’m not inflicting THAT monstrosity of spelling and grammar on the populace of Sunnydale.” He started pacing, clearly agitated by this affront to his finer sensibilities.

Buffy made a face at him. “We are here to clean up your stupid mess, not provide copy editing services.”

Spike glowered darkly, taking a hard drag off his cigarette, and Willow called out a heads-up, and Buffy watched as the tent fluttered down to hide the sign from view. Spike sighed in relief, then started patting himself as if looking for something. Buffy hurried over, because if there was a pat-down going down, she wanted to be in on the action. He found it before she got to him though, a small plastic bag in one of the dozens of pockets in the lining of his duster, and he looked at it in satisfaction before sliding it into one of the main pockets, and so Buffy was just standing there with no excuse for her itchy hands.

Willow strolled over to join them, sliding her bag of spell components onto her shoulder. “So you may want to hook the last tent side on and drape it over the back of the sign, because the sign’s not quite tall enough to block the sun itself, and I think the angle gets a bit iffy after 9 or so.” She squinted up at the eastern horizon. “Also, I think you have about a minute to get in there.” She shooed Spike along like a recalcitrant rooster; he muttered a sardonic thanks and ducked into the tent.

Buffy gave Willow a quick hug. “I’m so sorry we made you wait.”

Willow hugged back. “No problemo. I know you haven’t been getting much… sleep lately, and I understand if you need to, um, get all the sleep you want. Need.” She quirked an eyebrow. “SLEEP is very important for psychological and physical well-being, and a natural thing for consenting adults to indulge in.”

“Uh, yeah. So I recall from our Junior year Health class. Also possibly from preschool.”

“As long as you’re making sure to practice Safe Sleep. You are, aren’t you?” Willow’s face was genuinely concerned.

“…I try to sleep on pillows rather than the rims of active volcanoes,” Buffy said cautiously, wondering where the heck Willow was going with this.

Willow rolled her eyes in embarrassment. “Yeah, guess I, uh, am going off on a weird tangent there. Just, you know, getting excited about the, um, vicarious sleep. Anyhow, I got you a mocha latte at the Espresso Pump, but it’s probably a little cold. Anything else you need?”

“I think we’re probably good for now. I’ll take care of that tent side and get settled in for the show.” She frowned at her watch. “Sunnydale’s Finest should be here in a little while. Joy of joys.”

“Okay then, I’ll be back around eleven to help put up the tent.” Willow stepped back a bit. “Now, best friend opinion: How do I look?”

Buffy dutifully scanned Willow up and down. “Well, you’re beautiful, but you know that.” Willow grinned. “Okay, for anything more than that I need to know what the occasion is.”

“Coffee with Riley. We’re meeting in a couple hours, so I have time to change if you think it’s necessary.”

“Are we talking hot-date-coffee? Or still-just-friends-testing-the-waters-coffee?” Buffy frowned. “Because I think you may have missed the mark for hot-date-coffee. The sweater vest...”

“Um, more like breaking-up-though-we’re-not-actually-dating-coffee.” Willow couldn’t quite meet Buffy’s eyes.

“Aw!” Buffy stepped in and gave Willow another hug, a big advance-consolations one. “Already? Poor guy’s going to get a complex, gorgeous women keep kicking him to the curb like this.”

“Yeah.” Willow ducked her head, then lifted it again, jaw a little stubborn, and huffed her hair out of her face. “I just… Well, I was thinking and I decided I want what you have.”

Buffy froze. “What I have?” She wants Spike? Wait, she doesn’t know about Spike, does she?

Willow gasped, eyes huge. “Oh! I mean… Not what you have, what you want. I want what you want.” She fell silent, looking thoughtfully in the direction of the sunrise.

Buffy nodded, but that still didn’t make her feel better, because what she WANTED was still Spike, and she really hoped that Willow didn’t also want Spike, because she had always known she would step aside if she and her best friend had a crush on the same man, that had been the Best Friends Rule since she and her kindergarten bestie Alyssa had both been crushing on that first-grader (Michael? Myron? Some M-name), but she really didn’t want to step aside and let Willow have Spike, even though she totally deserved super-fantastic sex too, because Spike was HER vampire he was HERS HERS HERS… Buffy sucked in a calming breath. Maybe she should let Willow finish explaining. She waited.

Willow finally heaved a pensive sigh. “I… I guess I don’t know. I’m really confused right now. But… I don’t want to just have a nice safe boring boyfriend. I like Riley fine, but there’s just not enough sparkage there, and I decided that I deserve… more.” She looked at Buffy, and her eyes were full of turmoil, but there was steely resolve under it all. “I want a big love, an epic love, someone who sneaks into my heart when I’m not even looking, and plants a whole garden there. Someone who makes me more, well, ME, just by being there.” She smiled wryly. “I want to be stupid and reckless and daring, instead of safe and boring and tepid. I want MAGIC.” She looked off at the horizon again, looking like she wanted to say something more, but she flicked a sidelong glance at Buffy and fell silent, lips pressed together.

Buffy folded her in her arms again, gently. “Yeah, that’s what you deserve. You deserve magic.” Just please, not with Spike.

Willow squeezed back. “Yeah. We both do.”

Buffy waited what she hoped was an appropriate amount of time before asking with studied nonchalance, “So, got anyone in mind yet?”

Willow sighed, looking off again. “Maybe. I don’t know. There’s… there’s definite sparkage, and magic, and something really really special, I think. But it’s also… complicated.”

“So, who’s the lucky guy?” Buffy kept her voice light. Not Spike not Spike not Spike…

“It’s… nobody you know.” Willow clutched at the strap of her bag, avoiding Buffy’s eyes. “And it’s… I’m not sure. We just met yesterday. I just… BUT, so, there was a spark, a real one, a big glowy electric one, and I…” She shrugged. “I guess when I realized it, and I didn’t know what to do, I thought to myself, ‘What would Buffy do?’ and then I thought, well, Buffy would jump right in with both feet, and not be afraid, and take a chance, even if… even if it was a little weird. Unexpected. Kind of out-in-left-field. But, you know. Carpe diem.”

Oh, yeah, that was what Willow called it. Buffy filed that away, hoping she could remember it, because that was sure a handy phrase, even though it sounded like it was talking about fish. “Okay, Wills, you’re being super cryptic here, but I… yeah, I understand.” Buffy hugged Willow again, half because Willow looked so cute and lost and confused, and half because she was pretty sure that whoever the hell Willow was talking about, it definitely wasn’t Spike, and that was definitely of the good. “You don’t have to tell me anything more. It’s okay to keep it secret until you’re sure. When you’re ready to introduce us, just let me know, okay? I promise not to be too scary.” She frowned at the tent. Speaking of scary… “Though you might want to introduce the rest of us, you know, a bit at a time. Break them in to full Scoobiedom gradually.”

“Like boiling a lobster,” Willow agreed. “Though you know, I would never boil a live lobster. That’s really ooky and gross.”

“SO.” Buffy stepped back again, wiping a bit of a tear from her eye. “Not-actually-dating-breakup, huh?” She scrutinized Willow’s outfit, then reached out and unbuttoned another button on the blouse, tugging the brightly-striped sweater-vest down a bit. “You’ve got the right amount of leg, the tights show off the goods without hinting at anything more, skirt is a good modern-but-not-slutty length, but you need just a hint of boobage here. He needs to see what he’s missing out on. Just a little, though. If you had any intention of him actually enjoying the goodies someday, you’d need a different shirt altogether.” She gave her another once-over. “And take my lip gloss, out of my bag. Not the Berry Blush, you need the Pink Rhapsody to go with your hair. You want to look like you’re definitely worth kissing, but that your lips are tragically Not On The Menu, and he’ll have to settle for sucking face with his lonely cappuccino.”

“All right then.” Willow obediently dug into Buffy’s bag and let Buffy dab the lip gloss on. “So, um, we going to the Bronze tonight?”

Buffy grinned. “You bet. I need you to tell me how it went, you heartbreaker you.”

Willow gave her an enthusiastic two-thumbs-up, heading off with a cheerful grin to heartlessly dump Riley, and Buffy waved her off, picking up the cold mocha latte from the bench where Willow had set it and heading into the tent.

Spike was leaning sulkily against the sign, smoking. He gave her a pissed-off look as she came in. “Took you long enough,” he groused, pitching his cigarette butt into the slightly-mangled flower bed that surrounded the sign, which had been stripped of its offensive saying, the letters lying in the grass.

“Willow needed me,” she shrugged, tucking her coffee into the drink holder of her chair, then smiled sweetly at Spike. “Was there something you wanted me for?”

He stalked over to her, jaw set. “Had some ideas.”

Buffy slid her hands up into his hair. “Were these ideas… BAD ideas?”

His jaw twitched. “They were good ideas. Brilliant ideas.” He slid his hands down into the back pockets of her jeans. “But they involved you being a bad, bad girl, so…”

“Mmmm.” Buffy rolled her body against his. “You will have to tell me about these… ideas.” She patted him on the cheek briskly. “HOWEVER, first I am going to attach the remaining side to the tent, because otherwise you are in danger of becoming a big pile of dust come nine o’clock, and then who would appreciate what a bad girl I am?”

He kissed her then, hungrily, and she kissed him back, thinking about what Willow had said, because this, all of this, all of Spike, was absolutely epic, and Willow had been right. Buffy had jumped right in, no looking back, no regrets. Carpe diem. Well, Buffy was going to carpe the hell out of that diem, like a Goddamn Amazon. (Or, um, diem the carpe, because she really wasn’t sure which word was the verb there.)

Unless Willow had been feeding her bad Latin all along, as a private joke, and carpe diem really did mean something about fish, in which case Buffy would stick to seizing the day (and Spike) in English. She would have to check with Giles later.

There was an aggressive throat-clearing behind her, and Buffy reluctantly tugged her lips away from Spike, who gave a disappointed growl. Officer Lin was standing in the tent opening, glaring at them, bin of cleaning supplies in his hands; Officer Michaels was standing behind him, murder in her eyes and a cheerily wrapped gift in her hands.

Wow, she hadn’t even heard the patrol car. SO epic.

A wrapped Christmas present, though. That took some serious chutzpah. Buffy narrowed her eyes at Officer Michaels and snuggled in to Spike. He eyed her suspiciously, but didn’t pass up the opportunity to cop a feel, curving his hands around her ass. “I hope you’re not too tired to clean, honey,” Buffy purred, tracing a pattern on the front of his shirt. “After making sweet love to me ALL NIGHT LONG.” She fluttered her eyelids. “Could you help me get to my chair? I’m just having a little trouble walking. Because of all that SWEET SWEET LOVEMAKING.”

“Are you now, luv?” Spike gave her a smug look that said he knew exactly what she was doing but didn’t mind her show of jealousy one bit (Fake jealousy! Buffy tried to convince herself, but sighed, because it was absolutely one-hundred-percent real jealousy, she needed to just accept it now before it destroyed her) and solicitously helped her to the camp chair. “Do you need a cushion for your poor, tender bottom?” He gazed at her with what she would swear was pure adoration – when had he learned to act? – and kissed her fingertips tenderly, kneeling between her legs. Over his shoulder she saw Lin summarily drop the box of supplies with an irritated sigh, stomping out of the tent; Michaels was still hovering, eyes unfocused enough that Buffy suspected she was envisioning the scene before her with herself in a starring role.

Buffy shifted in the chair experimentally. “Perhaps I do,” she volunteered. “I do believe I am sore in muscles I didn’t even know I had, until I needed to use them for all those very interesting sexual positions we tried when we stayed up having hot monkey sex ALL NIGHT LONG.”

Spike’s eyes warmed with laughter and lust. “Here, kitten. Allow me.” He shrugged out of his duster and took off his red shirt (Michaels gasped avidly), folding it into a thick square. “Lift up, my little crème brulée.” He tucked the makeshift cushion in between her legs, running his thumb firmly along the seam of her jeans along the way, then stroking hard as he pulled his wicked hand out. Buffy gasped. Michaels gasped too, and Buffy glared at her. Spike leaned in close to whisper, “I am intrigued by these interesting sexual positions I apparently ravaged you with, Buffy.” His voice was hoarse. “You simply must fill me in.”

“Oh, I will,” Buffy promised with a smile. “Now go clean.”

Spike kissed her forehead in a show of tenderness and turned away. Officer Michaels was looking at him as if he were made entirely of rich European chocolate, and acting as if Buffy weren’t even there; Buffy thought she might even see drool. It just figured the twit would be undeterred by Spike romancing someone else right in front of her. She settled for glaring imperiously as Michaels pointed out a few cleaning implements in the bin, and then shyly handed Spike her gift. He thanked her graciously – it seemed suitably impersonal to Buffy, no hand-kissing or naughty looks, but Michaels blushed as if he had dipped her like Casanova – and dutifully ripped open the paper to expose a knitted scarf, red, with extravagant tassels.

Spike looked at it for a moment, then looked at Buffy, face unreadable, then smiled gently at Michaels, murmuring a few words before carefully folding the scarf and setting it on top of his discarded duster. Michaels looked disappointed for a moment, but then cast Buffy a look of determined venom and stalked out of the tent.

Buffy regarded Spike levelly as he pulled supplies out of the bin. “You know she knit that by hand,” she said flatly. “In four days.”

Spike shrugged, not looking at her. “Yeah,” he admitted in a quiet voice.

There was a lot more that Buffy could say, mean things, accusations, recriminations, but instead she just sighed. “Let me get that tent side hung up.” She walked past Spike; his eyes followed her warily.

“Not going to give me a lecture, Slayer? Tell me what a cad I am?”

She started hooking on the wall. “And say what? I don’t think you’ve done yourself any favors there, leading her on. I know you don’t have any sort of conscience, but I do. I feel pretty bad for her.” She turned and pierced him with a look. “But she just has to learn to live with disappointment because I don’t share.”

Spike looked like he was about to open his mouth to argue about the conscience thing, but that shut him up. He looked at the ground, then back up at her, eyes burning. “I don’t share either, Slayer,” he said in a low, hard voice.

Buffy could feel something awful about to come out of her mouth – something about Angel and Drusilla, something vicious and cruel that would hurt her as much as it hurt him – but she managed to bite it back, because it really wasn’t fair, not to him or to herself, and she thought about that morning, about his hand in hers, gentle and cool, and she breathed deeply. Hit the snooze button, she thought determinedly, and let go of the tent wall, letting it dangle, and turned and barreled into Spike, hugging him fiercely. “I’m sorry,” she murmured into his chest as his arms came up about her. “I’m sorry.” Even though she didn’t know just what she was apologizing for, or if it even was an actual apology; it just seemed like the right thing to say.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, so quietly she could barely hear. “I’m sorry too.”

Buffy sniffled and pulled back, thumping Spike in the chest with her fist, but not hard, just enough to make her point. “Like I would have the time to deal with another stupid boyfriend. I don’t get any sleep as it is.”

“So… I’m your boyfriend,” Spike said offhandedly.

“I guess,” Buffy said into his shirt. “Sort of.”

“Huh.”

She thumped him again. “Don’t get too full of yourself, buster.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, pet.”

“Now, clean. I’m going to save your pasty ass from the sun.” She dragged a hand across said ass as she stepped away. Spike was looking at her with hooded eyes; she turned her back and started hooking the rest of the tent wall up. Behind her, she heard the sound of scraping. “So, what does that symbol mean? Were you doing some sort of ritual?” She finished hooking, and tugged the wall so that there weren’t any openings. “I thought you didn’t do that sort of thing.”

Spike grinned at her. “Looks like a ritual thing, don’t it?” He focused for a moment on his scraping. “What do you think it looks like?”

Buffy came and looked over his shoulder. The symbol had an infinity sign at the base, then a straight line up with two crossbars, the top one shorter. “This may be because I am coming to know how your mind works, which is really kind of gross, but it looks like a penis,” she said finally. “Except with spines.” (Didn’t some otherwise-pleasant animal have spiny penises? Oh yeah, cats. She didn’t know why she knew that, but apparently someone had bestowed that traumatic knowledge upon her at some point. Possibly the same kind soul who had told her about bedbug STD’s.)

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too.” Spike scraped a little harder at a bit of paint ingrained into the plastic lettering, then reached down for a rag and solvent can. “Was hoping they’d think it was the barbed cock o’ Satan.”

“Ew, Spike. Just ew.”

“It’s not actually a cock, though.” Spike looked at her sidelong, teeth bared as he rubbed at the paint. “I am an excellent draftsman, as you may recall. If I wanted to paint a penis on this sign, it would bloody well look like a penis. Hell, if I used mine as the model, might improve attendance at service.” He leered cockily at Buffy. Yeah, he was a little full of himself now. Though she guessed he had earned a little ego, after all the orgasms, and his penis was actually very nice indeed. She might actually attend the First Church of Spike’s Penis, spend a little time on her knees, and WOW her brain was going in demented directions now.

“So, what is it?”

“Alchemical symbol for sulfur,” Spike said proudly. “There’s a couple variations, of course, but this one had the balls at the bottom, so looks a little naughtier.” He lifted his eyebrows cheekily.

“That’s it?” Buffy frowned at what was left of the symbol. “Thought it was something, you know, evil.”

“Yeah, that was the point. Get people all hot and bothered about Satanists in their midst, when it’s really just chemistry. Then when they find out, they feel stupid.” He swiped judiciously at the paint. “Which they are. Or uneducated, which is worse.”

“Huh.” Buffy tilted her head to one side. “It could be a key, actually.”

Spike glared at her. “You saw a spiny penis. Can’t take back your first impression.” He turned back to his work. “Knew you had a dirty mind, Slayer. Always thinking impure thoughts.”

This was true, but she protested anyhow. “I do not have a dirty mind. I think lots of non-dirty thoughts.” Just not recently.

“Course you do,” Spike said reassuringly. “Why don’t you go sit down, luv. This looks to take a bit of effort.”

Buffy sighed and seated herself, shaking out Spike’s wrinkled red shirt and tossing it on top of the scarf so she didn’t have to look at it. Her mocha latte was now ice cold, but still had the twin pillars of chocolate and caffeine to make it worth drinking. Spike had stopped scrubbing and was fiddling with the plastic bag from his pocket, bending down to gather the scattered marquee letters. “What are you doing?” she asked suspiciously.

“Solvent needs to sit a bit, loosen the paint. Thought I’d fix this in the meantime.” The plastic bag turned out to contain more block letters, a huge assortment, which made Buffy wonder how often Spike "fixed" church marquees. Spike whistled merrily, a tune she thought she recognized from earlier in the week, and started to place letters in grooves on the sign.

“Don’t put anything gross,” Buffy ordered. “This is a church.”

“Perish the thought,” Spike said airily.

Buffy sighed and drank some more mocha latte, admiring Spike’s back as he worked. Finally he finished his task and stepped aside with a sigh.

“There you go, Slayer.”

Buffy looked at the sign.

CHRISTMAS COMES ONCE A YEAR. HOW OFTEN DO YOU?

Buffy’s mouth gaped open. “Spike! You can’t have that on the sign!”

Spike affected a confused look. “What? Just a simple reminder to the congregation that they should be attending Mass on a weekly basis, not just the fancy Christmas service.”

“Change it!” Buffy felt her face growing red. Spike shrugged and moved in front of the sign again.

A few moments later he stepped back again, eyeing the sign judiciously. “This better, Slayer?”

YOU CAN’T ENTER HEAVEN UNLESS JESUS ENTERS YOU!

Buffy choked on her sip of coffee. “Oh, GROSS, Spike!”

“Slayer, this is a simple statement of religious fact. One must open one’s soul to Jesus, be filled with the Holy Spirit, in order to achieve salvation. You really must study your catechism.” Spike leaned on the sign and gave her a wicked, hot look. “Of course, from the things you were saying last night, I got the impression that my... ENTERING you was also something of a religious experience…”

“Oh, God…”

“Yeah, that was part of it.” Spike sucked in his cheeks, giving her a sultry, knowing glare.

“No. Just…NO.”

Spike shrugged and pulled the letters off, starting over.

“Think this one might be apropos,” he said finally, stepping aside so she could see.

STAYING IN BED SHOUTING ‘OH GOD!’ DOES NOT CONSTITUTE GOING TO CHURCH.

Spike eyed her judiciously. “Shame, that. Last night you could have earned credit for a couple of years’ worth of masses.”

Buffy put her face in her hands. “Oh, God.”

“Pretty sure sitting in a camp chair saying ‘Oh, God!’ also does not constitute going to church…”

“Fix it!”

Spike’s next attempt was A LOT OF KNEELING WILL KEEP YOU IN GOOD STANDING, which made Buffy think of the First Church of Spike’s Penis, and she was hard pressed not to shove him up against the sign and start in on the worshipping-on-her-knees, because even though he was completely infuriating, he was also making her laugh against her will, and there was something about his cheeky teasing that was incredibly hot, but she was ninety-nine percent sure that giving a vampire a blow job against a church marquee was in its own special category of mortal sin, and while she wasn’t a religious sort she didn’t think it was wise to take that big of a chance.

“Can’t you just do, I don’t know, a Bible verse or something?” she said desperately.

Spike shrugged amiably. “All right. King James work for you?”

“Sure,” Buffy moaned, waving her hand at him.

A few moments later, he stepped back proudly. “There you go. Had room for two.”

Buffy glared at the marquee.

IN YOUR RIGHT HAND THERE ARE PLEASURES FOREVER. PSALMS 16:11

WHATEVER YOUR HAND FINDS TO DO, DO IT WITH ALL YOUR MIGHT. ECCL 9-10

Spike leaned leisurely against the sign and deliberately slid his right hand across his chest and down his stomach to blatantly cup his crotch.

Buffy launched herself out of the camp chair, hands raised to pummel Spike, but he caught her arms and tugged them up around his neck and she ended up kissing him furiously, shoving him back against the sign. He kissed her back, laughing, and she loved the way it felt when he laughed against her lips so she kissed him more, until they were both laughing, laughing hysterically, entwined arms holding each other up. When they finally subsided, Buffy lifted her head and glared at him.

He returned her glare with a look of innocence. “What? Not my fault you have a dirty mind.”

“How come you know the Bible well enough to pick out the dirty-sounding bits?” she huffed.

Spike shrugged. “Went to church, when I was human. Church of England, of course. Was a long time ago, but had a good religious indoctrination.” He ran his hands down her back. “Even after I became a vampire, still read the Bible now and then, for the naughty bits.”

Buffy scoffed. “The Bible does not have ‘naughty bits.’”

Spike raised his eyebrows. “Has all sorts of naughty bits. Sex and violence and bloodshed.”

“You are such a liar.”

Spike looked at her for a long time, then knelt in front of her, bending in to kiss her hand. “Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners?”

Buffy looked down at him in disbelief. “What’s that? Shakespeare?”

“Bible, luv. Song of Solomon.” He turned her hand over and pressed his lips to her wrist. “Hush now, kitten. Listen for a moment.” He took a deep breath, then looked up at her, eyes dark and intense. “’Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair.’” He reached up a hand to pull out a lock of her hair, stroking it down over her chest. “’Thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks; thy hair is as a flock of goats that appear from Mount Gilead.’” He stroked his fingers along her lips. They parted unconsciously, and he slipped one fingertip in; she automatically caught it between her teeth, and he gasped. “’Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which came up from the washing; whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them.’” He pulled his damp finger out, traced it across her lips and up her cheek to her brow. “’Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely; thy temples are like a piece of pomegranate within thy locks.’” His hand traveled down her face again, stroking across her throat. “’Thy neck is like the tower of David builded for an armoury, whereon there hang a thousand bucklers, all shields of mighty men.’” Onward his hand traveled, down her chest, and suddenly he was standing and both his hands were cupping her breasts, and she fell back against the sign, head tossed back as he stroked them adoringly. “’Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.’” He let one hand drift down her stomach, cupping her mons through her jeans, stroking gently. “’Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, I will get me to the mountain of myrrh, and to the hill of frankincense. Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee.’” He leaned in and kissed her, and she hazily kissed him back, because there was something in his voice, the way he fervently intoned the verses, that was sexier than all the dirty talk he had been seducing her with, and she wished he could just toss her down in the grass and have at her mountain of myrrh, because she felt fragrant and fair and utterly romanced.

Then she frowned in confusion. “Did you just compare my teeth to sheep?”

He kissed her behind her ear. “It’s a simile, luv. From back in the day when a flock of sheep meant wealth and stability and fruitfulness. Like diamonds or pearls nowadays.”

“Oh,” she said, tilting her head to the side so he could kiss her more. “I can’t believe you are seducing me with the Bible.”

“Mmmm,” he murmured into her neck. “Can seduce you with the Bible more.”

“Okay,” she whispered back.

Spike bent down and kissed her chest, right above her heart. “’Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm; for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave; the coals thereof are coals of fire which hath a most vehement flame. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it; if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be condemned.’”

His hands roamed her body as he spoke, fingers of one hand sliding down into her jeans while the other pinched and tugged at her nipples, and she gasped and sighed and quivered and writhed, and then felt his smug grin when she finally came, and then she realized that if there was a Hell she was absolutely going, because she had just been brought off by a Bible-quoting vampire against a church marquee plastered with innuendo-laden Bible verses, which she was pretty sure was blasphemy to the third power, and to top it off she didn’t feel even the slightest bit repentant.

She briefly considered whether she would make matters worse by convincing Spike to make love to her right up against the marquee, but then she heard the rustling of the tent walls as someone tried to find the opening, and she shoved Spike down where he couldn’t be caught in any sunlight that peeked through and darted back to her chair to lounge like an invalid, a completely sexed-out invalid, and when Officer Lin managed to find his way into the tent, bringing a tray of plants for the flower bed, something appropriate for a California December, Spike was fixing the sign to read TRY OUR SUNDAYS, THEY’RE BETTER THAN DAIRY QUEEN’S! and industriously preparing to scrub more at the solvent-softened spray paint, while Buffy was sipping innocuously at her mocha latte.

Spike surreptitiously winked at her, and she lifted her coffee cup in a salute.

She was SO going to Hell.

 

End Chapter 9

 

Chapter 9 Author’s Notes:

Copious quotes from the Song of Solomon, King James edition; shout out to Professor Torricelli, whose rousing interpretation of the sheep bit (which is to say, actually kneeling before me to declaim “Your teeth! They’re like my sheep!”) in his “Bible as Literature” class has stuck with me for decades. My UNO friends reading this will understand perfectly.

Thanks to the internet for dozens of examples of Church Signs Gone Wrong.

I feel Very Very Naughty writing this chapter. Please rest assured that any and all mockery of Christianity is done all in fun, from a perspective of years of Catholic school, and is not meant to be offensive. Then again, you are reading Spuffy porn, so I guess you should be able to deal with this. ;)


	10. Purification

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies for the long wait for this chapter. I could explain, but the tl:dr is WORK/KIDS/HEALTH all coming together in a perfect storm of not-letting-me-write. Thank you to everyone for waiting so patiently.

Buffy could not stop thinking about Spike’s hands.

It wasn’t just about how good he was at touching her with them, though that was certainly always in the back of her mind, when it wasn’t full-center-stage, because his fingers were basically magic, but there was just something about watching his hands doing things, ordinary mundane things, that was fascinating. The way he flicked open his lighter when lighting up a cigarette. How his fingers twitched with energy when he was about to jump into a brawl. He touched things around him constantly, testing the texture of stone and plastic and metal and fabric, tracing contours and exploring crevices, like he needed to see everything with his hands as well as his eyes. Like everything around him had secret messages coded in Braille that he had to read. And she suddenly wondered if it was like that for him with people, if he needed to touch people to really see them, and she remembered how he was always touching her, not just sexy touches, but tracing random patterns on her arms or petting her hair or just holding her hand, and she realized that she was the only one he was able to touch now, the only one who would endure it, and even that only recently, and it ached queerly behind her eyes, that such a tactile man would have nobody to touch at all, and she kind of understood why he had even put up with Harmony for a while there, just for that. Though not really, because he had still been forced to listen to her.

His long white fingers were currently coated in dirt from setting the plants delivered by Officer Lin into the ravaged flowerbed, troweling out a hole for each one and patting the soil up into sloping mounds around the roots as he placed them, and it was funny how he had stopped making lewd jokes and trying to show off his body for Buffy and was just… planting. Letting the dirt fall through his fingers. Making a little garden, like an ordinary man with a green thumb, and no naughtiness in him at all. Even when he looked up at her – which he did often – his expression was something shy, not the slightest bit seductive, like planting things made him think tender thoughts, like he was planting a flower garden for her.

Which of course meant that Buffy herself was thinking twice as many dirty thoughts. They were also twice as dirty, because even after all her fuss about showers, she was inexplicably turned on by the thought of Spike running his literally-grimy hands all over her clean skin, and so while he was humming away like a celibate monk tending medicinal herbs, her body was humming with arousal and she was thinking that she wanted him to plow her right into the ground.

Which sounded like the plot of a really corny porn movie, something set in a monastery with naughty nuns and frisky friars, and she was going to stop right there, because she was already in enough trouble with the Almighty, thank you very much.

But he finished with the last of the plants and rocked back on his heels to stand up, dusting his hands briskly together and squaring his shoulders resolutely, and when he turned to face her he was himself again, eyes running over her sardonically as he tugged his pack of cigarettes out of his rolled-up t-shirt sleeve. He frowned at the pack for a moment, then down his begrimed arms.

“Need some help?” she snarked in a tone of voice she hoped would get his back up a little, because much as she liked him when he was all cuddly, she also kind of liked him when he was prickly. Attitude looked good on him.

He rewarded her with a dark look that went straight to the pit of her stomach. “Can tap one out, if I just find a clean place to tap.”

“Oh no, let me,” she said sweetly, which clearly made him a little suspicious. That was good, she liked him a little on edge too. She rose from the camp chair as seductively as she could manage (folding camp chairs were NOT designed for The Sexy) and sauntered towards him. He warily watched her as she slid out a cigarette and held it up for him.

“Thought you thought these were gross,” he said shortly, taking the cigarette delicately between his lips.

“I do. Where’s your lighter?”

He smiled around the cigarette, challenging. “Jeans. Left front pocket.”

Buffy held his eyes with hers as she slid her fingers in to find the cool block of metal. She made a few detours along the way, because she was always up for a challenge. Oooh. Was he always ready on deck?

“Gonna light me up, pet?” Spike crooned, sliding his hands under the hem of her shirt, leaving a trail of loose soil along her belly. His eyes had drifted almost closed, just a little glitter showing through sinful eyelashes.

“Don’t I always?” she bantered back, taking the left turn at Albuquerque on her way back out with the lighter. He growled deep in his throat, eyes closing all the way for a moment.

It took her a few tries to coax a flame out of the lighter – it was old, and apparently crotchety, and also Spike was still distracting her, tracing loop-de-loops with his dirty dirty fingers on her trembling stomach –but she finally got a good flame going and held it up; he leaned in and slowly inhaled to light the cigarette, the cherry glowing between them, and it felt like he was inhaling her as well, sucking in her attention and her breath and her soul, and she forgot to let the lighter’s flame go until it started to burn her thumb, which snapped her out of it pretty quickly.

She stepped back and popped her thumb in her mouth, slipping the lighter into her own jeans pocket, and Spike let her go, hands twitching up towards his mouth and then back down.

“You should go wash those,” she said regretfully, watching him exhale awkwardly around his cigarette.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, almost losing the cigarette. “This isn’t working as well as I’d hoped.”

Buffy took pity on him and, after his next inhale, plucked the cigarette from his lips, holding it gingerly between her thumb and finger so that he could exhale. “Movie theater’s kind of far, but…” She smiled impishly. “We could always pay our respects inside the church. I hear the interior design is to dust for.” She held the cigarette up for him.

Spike rolled his eyes as he took a drag. “You know I can look at a cross just fine without bursting into flames, or even looking mildly perturbed,” he groused on his exhale. “Bela Lugosi was just a ham. And I generally have the self-preservation instinct not to drape myself across them as well.”

Buffy popped the cigarette back in his mouth; his lips closed around it automatically. “Well, in that case, race you!”

She ducked out of the tent, yelling “Bathroom break!” in the direction of the police shadows, and took off at top speed, hearing him curse behind her.

 

She won of course, because he had to get his duster and get thoroughly covered up and be cautious about the sun, but she didn’t feel too awful, because there was actually decent shade coverage most of the way to the church doors, and he wasn’t that far behind her or their anklets would have gone off, and anyways she needed to get out of the tent fast because she was feeling a little weird about the whole helping-him-smoke thing; it somehow felt more intimate and charged than anything that had happened over the past few days, maybe because it just felt so… normal. Girlfriend-y. And while she had admitted to Spike just a little while ago that he was her boyfriend, or something as close as made no difference, thinking of herself as a girlfriend felt… different. Scary. And so she ran under the droplets of sunlight that trickled through the tree branches, and then stood full in the warm winter sun at the front of the church, holding the door open for Spike to dash through – but she made sure to step inside first, just for a second, in case he tried to pull an I-made-it-inside-first rule-lawyering victory, because that was totally the kind of thing he would do, and even though it wasn’t a fair contest and they both knew it, she still intended to crow about her triumph a bit, so that he would kiss her with that little touch of fury that she really, really liked.

And he did, or at least almost did, the second she made it into the shade of the vestibule behind him, dropping his duster and pushing her up against the wall and pressing his body all up against hers as if to soak up the sun’s warmth from her skin, even though there was still a touch of smoke rising from his hair. His hands were planted on either side of her waist, grimy fingers twitching from the effort not to touch. His cigarette was clenched in his teeth. “You don’t play fair, Slayer,” he muttered, glaring at her mouth.

 

“Never have,” she agreed, laughing. “Playing fair is for losers.” She took the cigarette from his lips and held it off to the side so he could kiss her already.

“Hmm,” he murmured against her lips. “You know, in some demon cultures, victors in duels EAT their vanquished foes.” He brushed his cheek against hers lightly, hopefully.

Buffy could feel her own heartbeat accelerating and her breath catching, but regretfully put her hand on his chest and pushed him away, because Public Displays of Affection, and especially Public Displays of Fellatio, were bad enough when witnessed by the police; she really didn’t want to trade up for a man of the cloth. Or a nun. Did this kind of church have nuns? “Go wash your hands, Spike. We still have two hours of Happy Fun Cleaning Time to go.”

He looked bereft, but quickly covered it up with a careless shrug, averting his eyes. “Yeah, guess you want to take care of that.” He vaguely gestured towards her midsection. Buffy thought for a second he meant she should go masturbate in the bathroom, because that was the part of her abdomen her brain was currently stuck on, but then she realized he meant the stripes and squiggles of dirt on her belly. And then she slid a protective hand over her stomach, on top of her shirt, because she didn’t want to wash them off, she liked having his dirt on her, and she suddenly realized she had been using the word ‘liked’ in her head an awful lot today, almost constantly, thinking about Spike, and wasn’t she not sure about that yet? She clutched at the fabric of her shirt, and stared at Spike, and felt like the building was coming down around them.

She suddenly realized Spike was covertly watching her, had been watching her, carefully, maybe a bit angrily, and she deliberately relaxed, smiling at him and holding out the cigarette towards his mouth. “Yeah, guess I should get cleaned up too” He nipped up the cigarette and turned to go, and she suddenly realized that she had rejected him, even while she was thinking of nothing but him, and her hand automatically reached out, all on its own, and caught the back of his shirt, even though she suddenly had no idea what to say. She was feeling shy all over again, like they were starting over from scratch now that the word ‘like’ was tumbling merrily around inside her brain, chasing all the naughty innuendos and the witty banter and the flat-out dirty talk that she was surprisingly good at right out of her head. “I, um…” I’m sorry don’t go I’m sorry “I’m not comfortable in churches,” she finally blurted out.

He didn’t turn to look at her, but shrugged one shoulder in acknowledgment. “Can’t say as I am either.” His voice was deliberately casual. “Too quiet.” He sucked on his cigarette.

“So, um… Just not here, okay?” She looked down at her hand, gave a little tug. “Not now. But soon.”

He stood there for a moment, stiffly, smoke trickling up from another awkward exhalation. “Hate waiting,” he finally muttered.

“I know,” Buffy said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

He looked at her over his shoulder then, face unreadable. “Are you, indeed?”

She just looked at him, not sure what expression she was wearing, but not trying to hide anything either, because she was tired of struggling, against him and against herself. She wasn’t sure what he saw, but he looked away first. I win, she thought, a little sadly, and let go of his shirt. “Let’s… let’s just finish what we have to do today. Then we can…” Her voice trailed off, because there were a dozen things she wanted to do when they were finally alone somewhere private, but none of them seemed the right thing to say.

He just laughed, a little bitterly, and disappeared into the men’s bathroom. She thoughtfully went through the door next to it, into the ladies’ room, sitting on the floor between the two clean white sinks and listening to the water running next door and the sound of his voice, quietly muttering something she couldn’t understand. It was oddly comforting though, just listening to him, even though he was plainly still angry from the tone of his voice; it felt familiar, normal, and she was exhausted from having her world turned upside down, and normal was good. She cupped her hand gingerly over her stomach, feeling the dirt like a brand on her belly, like a tattoo, like a scar, and she leaned her head against the wall and wished things were simple again. Simple would be really really nice.

As long as she got to keep Spike.

\---

Spike glared at the empty mirror as he stuck his hands under the water, muttering imprecations under his breath, scrubbing soap up his forearms and past his elbows, because gardening was dirty work and he was a dirty man, or a dirty monster, or some pathetic dirty thing in between, and he wondered if that was all the Slayer saw when she looked at him, dirt, dirt that she might choose to roll in but that didn’t get to be treated like he had feelings or choices or anything worthwhile at all, and he was really getting pissed now, because thinking about the Slayer was only making him harder, making him want her more, but now it wasn’t good enough for him to just have her body, and her honest, willing lust, and to fight by her side, oh no – now he wanted her to think he was a MAN, all man, maybe even a GOOD man, something more than he knew he was, and maybe he even wanted to be that man for her, and what the bloody buggering FUCKING hell was wrong with him?

He fucking LOVED who he was. He had risen from a ridiculous, wet, pathetic milksop to The Big Bad, crafting his image and his reputation and his self, piece by piece, and he was proud of what he had done, the masterwork of evil that was SPIKE, Slayer of Slayers, William the fucking Bloody. And even after they had put the chip in his head, shut him out of the killing business, he had still been essentially himself – temporarily leashed, maybe, but still himself deep inside. He hadn’t given up evil in his heart of hearts.

But now. NOW. A couple of days of being led around by his cock by the fucking Slayer, and he was ready to throw all of that away, fight for the white hats, walk on eggshells and prostrate himself for her tiny, cruel feet to walk all over, just in the hope that she would touch him one more time with her disgustingly good hands and NOT let him tell her he loved her. On her bloody schedule and under her bloody rules. God, he was so fucking PISSED OFF.

And he was suddenly glad that he couldn’t see his own reflection, because he couldn’t bear to face himself, because all of that rot he was so pissed at himself about, the poncy desires and eagerness for humiliation and the absolute devotion to somebody who could barely admit she didn’t hate him, all of it was absolutely true. And that was what he wanted, with everything that was in him, to live and strive and die for the Slayer, for Buffy, and even though he was furious, shaking with rage, in a minute he was going to walk out of this room and put his cock right back in the Slayer’s cruel hands – not even literally, which would be at least a little bit bad, but figuratively – and do everything she told him to, even though he was dirt in her eyes, lower than dirt, because he had already admitted to himself that he loved her, and that he would do anything for her, and that he wouldn’t want to go on without her, and, well, there really wasn’t any lower that he could go.

God, he needed to dry off his hands so he could touch her again. She deserved to be touched with clean hands.

He scrubbed his hands dry on the cloth towel – one of those ridiculous rotating towels that they only had in churches and elementary schools and ancient petrol stations – took a final satisfying drag of his cigarette and tossed it into the urinal, and then just as he was about to turn to the door, he heard it swing open behind him, heard the click of the lock, and grinned in renewed confidence and anticipation. He had known she wouldn’t be able to resist his offer of a victory feast. Of course he had.

“Come for a taste, luv?” he said in his deepest, most velvety voice as he turned to greet her. And froze.

Officer Michaels was leaning up against the door.

Spike took a step back instinctively, because even though he was a vampire and she was human, and since she didn’t know he wasn’t human she was unlikely to have brought along anything that could actually harm him, there was something about the satisfaction and hunger in her eyes that reminded him of some of the less-pleasant demons he had met in his hundred-plus years, and he shivered.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she purred, letting a mass of dark hair loose from her uniform cap, and that was when he knew he was completely buggered, that his unlife as The Big Bad was ended, that he may as well hang up his fangs and his duster and subscribe to bloody Reader’s Digest, because the moment he realized why Officer Michaels was there his lovely grand erection, that had popped into existence indecently soon after he had come prodigiously inside Buffy on the floor of the bathroom, that had doggedly persisted through their shower, and their race across town, and hours of scrubbing and digging in the dirt and seducing and arguing with and nearly bursting with fury at Buffy – suddenly it was gone, wilted away, and here he was, locked in a room with an attractive, armed, handcuff-equipped policewoman, and yet he had zero desire to take her up on what she was so generously offering, because she wasn’t bloody Buffy. Hell, he wasn’t even feeling the residual desire to BITE her. Put a stake in him, he was done.

He played it cool, though, because even though she couldn’t hurt him, he also couldn’t hurt her, or even try to, and that made things difficult. “Wasn’t waiting,” he said calmly, leaning up against the wall. “Just about to leave, in fact.”

“Hmm. I suppose you were expecting your bitchy wife.” There was a world of venom in the last two words. Spike narrowed his eyes in reflexive anger, because that was BUFFY she was talking about, and while he agreed that she was a bit bitchy sometimes – in fact, that was one of her more attractive qualities – this overblown bint didn’t have the right to say so. “Why don’t you stop lying to yourself?” Michaels continued.

“Lying?” Spike fumbled out another cigarette, then realized Buffy still had his lighter. He tucked it between his fingers anyhow, as if it were lit. “Think I know my own mind.” His survival instincts, the instincts that had served him well for over a century, were screaming at him.

Michaels stalked towards him slowly, a predatory smile on her face. “You’re not really married,” she said confidently.

“Quite sure I am,” Spike said firmly, eyes darting around the room for an escape route. There was a window, there in the back, high and small but he could squeeze through in a pinch, except he had left his duster on the floor in the hall, so he had nothing to shield him from the sunlight.

Her eyes were fervent, adoring. “Even if you’re married in the eyes of the law, I know the truth.”

She was right in front of him now, and he started taking tiny steps to the side, calculating the distance to the door. “And what truth would that be?”

“Your ‘marriage’” – she actually made air-quotes, fingers vicious and sharp – “is a lie.” She stroked a hand down his chest, smiling, even blushing a little. It made him feel a little sick.

“And how do you know that?” He twitched away from her, dropping his unlit cigarette. He could get another later.

“Because I saw the photograph. You remember? The one you asked me for a print of?”

That stopped Spike in his tracks. He looked at her guardedly.

Michaels smiled, a secret, triumphant smile, stroking further down his chest, toying with his abs. “You smashed the window of a bridal store, and mutilated a wedding dress. Just one dress, out of the whole store. You spray-painted it. Ripped it to shreds. And later on I saw the dress, not just the photo but the dress itself. You didn’t just destroy that dress, you annihilated it, and I bet you even enjoyed it. Now tell me, what happily married man could possibly have such resentment for a wedding dress?”

Spike tried to make a break for it, ducking past her, but she blocked his way, and just the impact against her blocking arm was enough to make his chip fire. He fell back against the wall, agony dimming his eyes. Fuck.

She pressed up against him, fingers tracing delicate patterns just above the collar of his shirt. “Tell me, if I pulled out your wedding album, what would your wife’s dress look like?” Spike looked away, because even though Michaels had no idea what was actually going on, not what he was or what he had been thinking that night or the reality of his relationship with Buffy or anything factual at all, she still had put her finger on an essential truth, that the core of his rampage through downtown was grief and fury and despair at the beautiful future that Willow’s spell had bestowed upon him, made him crave more than blood and more than glory, and then brutally ripped away. Michaels looked shyly up at him through her lashes. “That dress was your wife. Symbolically. I’m sure you used to love her. Maybe she even loved you once, or pretended to. I can only imagine what she’s done to send a beautiful, loving, sweet man such as yourself on a bender like that, how cruel she must have been, but it’s all right now. I understand.” She pressed a shy kiss to his jaw. “Let me make it all better.”

Spike suddenly remembered how he had flirted with Michaels, that very first night, when she had been sent in to interrogate him, flirted and caressed and seduced her, just for the hell of it, how he had chatted and swapped innuendos with her each day since just to piss the Slayer off, and he realized he had wrought better than he had hoped, that he had created a monster. Carefully, gently, so as not to weaken himself with more pain, Spike halted her wandering hands, catching them by the wrists and holding them away from him. “Officer Michaels,” he began.

“Marie,” she cooed, nuzzling his neck. He carefully slid sideways along the wall, holding her wrists out at arms’ length so that he could ease away from her.

“Officer Michaels,” he repeated firmly, and she looked at him with narrowed eyes. “I don’t know what you think you know, but the fact of the matter is, I’m a one-woman man. I always have been.”

Michaels struggled against his hands, and pain shot through his skull. He released her wrists and nearly fell to the floor. “She doesn’t deserve you,” she insisted angrily, winding her hands into Spike’s t-shirt, diving in for a kiss, and he reflexively snapped.

“Sod off!” he growled, breaking her grip with a quick hard strike, but the chip didn’t care if it was quick or self-defense or automatic, and the resulting agony was like a railroad spike through his head, wasn’t that IRONIC, he started to laugh in bitter near-hysteria as he crumbled against the wall, and Michaels said something to him, something low and bitter and resentful, and he supposed that lesser pain was her hand slapping his cheek, but that was nothing compared to the waves of excruciating pain washing over him, blinding him, and it was like there was an alarm going off in his head, beeping and beeping and beeping over and over again, and then the pain started to subside but the beeping kept on, and he opened his eyes to realize that he was alone again, that the door was unlocked and Michaels was gone, and his anklet was what was making the awful beeping noise, which meant that Buffy was gone too, she was gone gone gone, and he buried his face in his desperately clutching hands and wept.

\---

Buffy wanted to sit there longer, but the water turned off and she heard the obnoxious creak and groan of the towel dispenser from the other side of the wall and she stood up, because Spike had no sense of boundaries and would come barging into the ladies’ room looking for her if she wasn’t in the hall when he got out there, which was not a problem in reality, since she was the only lady in there, but she felt she should prevent as a matter of principle, and then she heard the voices, and stopped still.

The walls between the bathrooms were thin, and with no water rushing through the plumbing, she could hear every word. After the scarf, she shouldn’t be surprised that Officer Michaels was willing to hit on a (fake) married man while his (fake) wife was literally in the next room, even not knowing about the fakeity faking, but she actually was kind of surprised after all, because really, who did that? Her first reaction was wanting to run in there and show the skanky, fake-husband-poaching beeyotch exactly who Spike belonged to, but it sounded like Spike was doing a good job of putting Michaels off on his own; he certainly didn’t sound welcoming or interested, and so Buffy decided to let him handle it.

Then Michaels talked about the dress.

Buffy had known, of course, that the bridal boutique had been on the list of businesses vandalized. She remembered reading the list of destroyed property that Spike would be compensating Sunnydale businesses for through the labor of his lily-white hands, her eyes passing casually over the line item of one (1) Bridal Gown, valued at holy-crap-a-lot-of-money. But she had been so caught up in all the other, more pressing details of Crime and Punishment and Lusting After Spike that she hadn’t given it a second thought. Now she felt sick and headachey at the realization that the dress so innocuously tallied up in the police documents wasn’t just any dress, it was HER dress, the one she had described to Spike in exhaustive, starry-eyed detail, and Spike had destroyed it, destroyed it completely, with the same hands that she craved so much, and she was so caught up in conflicting emotions that she missed a lot of what Spike and Michaels were saying, but suddenly she heard Spike’s voice, clear as a bell.

I’m a one-woman man. I always have been.

It stabbed straight into her, right into the soft bits where she had been opening up to Spike, letting the tender shoots of maybe-liking take root, and she had to go, she couldn’t look at him right now, she just couldn’t look at him, because she knew who his one woman had always been, and she felt like a fool, so she stumbled out of the restroom and through the vestibule and out the door, out into the sunlight, and her anklet went off but she didn’t care, she just walked a little ways out, to a sunlit patch just shy of the trees, and stood there, letting the beeping ring out into the streets of Sunnydale while she repeated her mantra of wanting and choosing and seizing the day until the sun finally cleared her head. Behind her she heard the door open and close, and she turned her head to see Michaels stalking back towards the cleaning tent, frustration clear in her every step – serves you right, skank-ho! – and then after a little bit longer the godawful beeping finally stopped, and she turned all the way around and looked back at the church.

The doors were still closed, of course, because it was sunny and Spike couldn’t come out except at top speed, and she guessed he was standing just inside the door waiting for her to come back, because of course if her anklet had been making noise to wake the dead, his had as well, so he had to have known that she had gone somewhere, just like now he had to know that she hadn’t gone far, and she smiled a little ironically at the way they had turned the stupid shackles into a secret language of sorts, like whalesong, vibrations sent out into the dark vast ocean that only another whale could understand. She slowly walked back to the church, opened the door a crack, and slipped back inside.

He was actually sitting against the wall, duster wrapped around him, one arm propped on a bent knee, looking bored, but she could tell by the way he carefully did not look up when she approached him and the way his hand trembled holding his slightly-crushed pack of smokes that the bored thing was just a mask, and while she didn’t know what he was covering up with it, it softened her enough that she slid down the wall to sit beside him, not touching him, but close enough that they could touch if they really wanted to. She wasn’t sure she wanted to yet, but she wanted to leave the option open, just in case.

Finally, she spoke, keeping her voice carefully noncommittal. “So, you destroyed my wedding dress.”

“Heard that, did you?” Spike looked off down the hall. “Yeah, might have.” He fumbled a cigarette out of his pack and turned it over and over in his hands.

“Why?”

He shrugged, looking down at his fidgeting hands, face closed. “Was pissed off.”

“At me.” Buffy stated it flatly.

“Well, yeah. Wasn’t like we were all tea parties and jam, back then.”

It sounded like he was talking about something from years ago, even though it was really only a few days, but now that she tried to think back, it was like she could hardly even remember who she had been, before they had collided and been forced into this weird alliance. She measured his words, the tacit apology hidden underneath, the unspoken suggestion that he would never do it now, not now that they were making delicious jam out of forbidden fruit, and she nodded briskly. “Okay. I guess that’s fair.”

He glanced at her sidelong. “What else did you hear?”

She shrugged and looked at him steadily. “Officer Skanky putting the moves on you. Have to hand it to you, you stood your ground. She looked like you really gave her what for.” Buffy looked away. “Heard you telling her how you had always been a one-woman man. That was, um… that was when I went outside.”

Spike frowned at his hands, but was silent.

Buffy inched a little bit closer. “Was there something else I should have heard?” she ventured cautiously.

Another shrug, careless. “No, nothing in particular. Maybe just some chickens coming home to roost.”

He kept toying with the unlit cigarette, and Buffy finally remembered that his ancient silver lighter was still weighing down the pocket of her jeans; she considered asking him to search for it, like she had earlier, but there was something fragile about their current truce, and she didn’t want to ruin it, so she wriggled into a position where she could fish the lighter out herself and handed it to him. He took it warily; it was still warm. “I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke in here, though,” she said suddenly, as he turned the lighter over in his hands.

That made him laugh, just a little, because of course that ship had already sailed, and she scooted over so that she could rest her head on his shoulder, and their hands snuck down to clasp loosely between them, under a fold of leather, and Buffy thought maybe things were okay again, and she wasn’t going to argue with herself when that made her a tiny bit happy, because she was so done with the inner turmoil for the day, and totally ready to get back to the flirting and the smooching, get back to simple.

“You didn’t want that dress, any road,” Spike said suddenly, voice back to normal. “Completely second-rate. All the embroidery was done by MACHINE. Pearls were fake, too.” He grinned, a quintessentially Spike grin, looking conspiratorially over at a statue of Jesus in the corner, as if the Son of God might have a thing or two to say about bridal fashion. “And it was white.”

“Of course it was white,” Buffy said. “Wedding dress. Duh.”

Spike gave her a patronizing look. “Everyone knows that the white of the wedding dress is a symbol of the purity of the bride encased in it. White is meant to be worn by brides who are chaste and untouched. A bride who is not a virgin is supposed to wear blue.” He shrugged with a little sly smile at her gasp of offended disbelief. “Don’t get all shirty with me, I didn’t make the rules.”

Buffy couldn’t really argue her spotless virginity with a vampire whose versatile tongue had been all up in her privates just hours before, not to mention all the various other parts of him, really good parts, that had been all up in various other parts of her, so she focused on the rules bit. “That is a totally Victorian, Neanderthal, Teutonic, outdated idea. Everyone gets to wear white nowadays, even the biggest ho down in Hoville. Plus, even WITH your stupid old-fashioned rule, I am totally entitled to wear white.” She paused, then continued in a small, grumpy voice, casting an embarrassed sidelong glance at him, “…with little blue dots.”

Spike smiled, a little bit smugly, looking at the lighter in his hand, like it held the secrets of the universe, his other hand snug in hers, gently stroking her thumb under the shield of leather, and they sat there for a few more seconds before he gave her fingers one last squeeze and released them, rolling easily to his feet and holding out a hand for her, firm and uncompromising. She took it in a strong grip and he heaved her up like a comrade-at arms, not like a lady at all, and she liked that, she really did, how he knew when she wanted to be a princess and when she wanted to be a warrior. They looked at each other over their clasped hands for a moment, and she grinned at him challengingly. “Once more into the breach? And before you say anything, I totally know that’s Shakespeare.” As long as you don’t call my bluff and ask me what play it’s from.

Spike gave her an approving look, though with a wry twist to his lips that made it clear he knew she was just repeating what he’d said the other day. “Well, well, well. Quoting the Bard. There’s hope for you yet, Summers.” He slipped his arms out of his duster and tented it over his head, preparing to run, and she yanked open the door and they spilled out into the sunshine together – he got a bit of a head start while she held the door open, but she caught up to him a moment later, matching her stride to his, though she put in a little burst of speed at the end so she could yank back the tent wall for him to sweep in without slowing, and when she let the tent wall fall again, he took her by the hands and gave her one swift kiss on the lips, sweet and brief, and then started to gather up his gardening implements while she gathered up her lounging implements, and it was almost comfortable again, but just the right amount, not so comfortable as to be boring and not quite uncomfortable either, just a little hint of an edge, and they were able to discuss their next cleaning goal and the logistics of moving the tent and it felt like everything was back to normal, the new normal, the abnormal-normal in which they were sort-of partners.

But neither of them mentioned that there was now only one shadow falling on their tent, only Lin’s bulky shape, and neither of them pointed out that there was something missing that had definitely been there when they took off for their bathroom-break-slash-sort-of-fight-slash-heart-to-heart.

The red scarf had disappeared.

\---

Officer Lin didn’t seem to have anything to say about the mysterious disappearance of Officer Michaels, just nodding in resignation when Buffy informed him that they were moving the tent to the next destination on their Cleaning Tour of Downtown Sunnydale – one end of a string of random sprayed graffiti that adorned a row of miscellaneous shops – and maintaining his sentry as they shuffled the tent along. Buffy wondered briefly if the big policeman was actually human, because he really was putting up with a lot of crazy-ass stuff on this assignment and taking it all in stride, but Spike listened and sniffed for a moment and assured her that Lin was no demon, and so she stopped worrying about it, chalking it up to the general-cluelessness that was rampant in the SPD.

But anyhow they moved the tent – they were actually getting pretty good at it now, could get a good clip going, though it had to be a weird sight from the outside, a popup tent walking on its own from place to place, feet sticking out below like a cartoon – and Spike knelt down and started in on the spray paint on the stone wall with a wire brush, and after a few minutes of watching him, Buffy dug in the bin of cleaning supplies until she found another wire brush and hunkered down next to him to help. He looked at her like she was crazy for a second, but Buffy glared at him, daring him to make a scene, prepared to give him a whole list of neutral reasons, like I’m-just-bored and I-want-to-get-this-over-with and I’m-out-of-mocha-latte, and finally he just leaned over and brushed his lips against her cheek and kept on scrubbing, and she shifted into criss-cross-applesauce so she could press her knee up against him. She could tell she was still a little nervous because she was thinking in kindergartener terms, but then Spike shifted his brush to his left hand and slid his strong right hand down onto her inner thigh, fingers tracing arcane patterns down her inseam, and she suddenly wasn’t thinking of kindergarten story time, but of Spike licking applesauce right off her privates, except they probably didn’t need the applesauce unless Spike really really wanted some, and she bet Ms. Lorraine hadn’t had THAT in mind at all back when she was doing her readings of “The Monster At the End of This Book.” Which was a shame, because Spike had Grover all beat to hell.

They had made it about halfway down the trail of spray paint that ended abruptly at the bridal boutique – something neither Buffy nor Spike felt like talking about – when Willow showed up to help them close up for the day. Buffy was actually taken by surprise by her arrival, because even though Spike had been a depressingly Good Boy and confined his caresses to her legs, it was still super distracting, and she could only hope Willow hadn’t noticed his hand all splayed out a few inches from her crotch when she came into the tent. But Willow didn’t even raise an eyebrow, so she just stood up and gave Willow the all-important hey-girlfriend-you-just-dumped-a-guy-comfort-mixed-with-congrats-hug, and Willow grinned at her to let her know she was okay even after just heartlessly kicking a decent guy to the curb.

Buffy didn’t want to hear the full story of pitching-Riley just yet, and from the thoughtful, determined look on her face Willow didn’t want to tell it just yet either, so they stood silently for a moment while Spike put a few more minutes of paint-scrubbing in. Finally, Buffy asked what had been on her mind all morning.

“So, what were your plans for this afternoon? Seeing as it’s Winter Break and all…” Buffy mentally crossed her fingers hoping that Willow had Plans, whatever they might be, so that she could also enjoy her own Plans. Her Spike Plans. Which she really hoped were also Spike’s Plans.

Willow’s face grew resolved. “I have Plans,” she said determinedly, the capitalization obvious in her voice, and Buffy smiled in relief.

“You are totally social-girl these days. Go Willow!”

Willow gave her a quirky half-smile. “Yeah, I’m SO POPULAR!” She tugged nervously at the V of her sweater-vest. “So, just out of curiosity… If I wanted to give the impression that I wanted someone to, um, enjoy the goodies, what top would I want to wear? Just, you know, hypothetically.”

Buffy gave Willow a look that said I totally see through your ‘hypothetically’ you saucy minx you and delivered a verdict. “Out of your wardrobe? The purple top. It makes your hair pop, like WOW. And it goes with that skirt, too.”

“Really? The purple one?”

“Absolutely. You could also borrow my cream peasant top, which gives you that earth-mother-glow, if you wanted to. But purple top is definitely the get-a-load-of-my-awesome-Willow-sex-appeal choice.”

“Well, okay then.”

“Wear the purple to the Bronze tonight,” Buffy encouraged. “Whether you’re looking or not, it’s definitely a fancy-free, get-all-the-guys-to-look-your-way fashion statement.”

Willow gave her a funny, wry look. “Yeah, that’s the statement I’m going for,” she said airily. She looked curiously at Buffy. “What about you?”

Buffy shrugged nonchalantly. “I was thinking I might get some sleep. Get rested up for the Bronze and patrol.”

“Sleep. Of course.” Willow nodded knowingly.

Buffy ran her eyes over Spike’s back, which was just rigid enough that she knew he was listening. “Um, I might have to go back to the dorm room for a while. I know you just did a disinvite spell, but…”

Willow looked at Spike too, eyes narrow. “I suppose we can let Spike in for now, since you’re kinda stuck with him. I can do another spell when you get the anklets off.” She raised her voice. “Spike, I can count on you not to let me down, right?”

He turned to face them, though he was looking at Buffy. “Yeah. Not gonna do anything stupid.” He flickered a glance at Willow’s face. “Or at least no stupider than usual.”

Willow smiled in satisfaction. “See that you don’t.”

Lin showed up then to reclaim his bin, and after he left they trudged through the routine of getting Spike safely to the sewers and the tent magically stored away – and wasn’t THAT sad, that this whole complicated process had become a routine – and afterwards Willow wiggled her fingers in farewell, saying she was going to stick to aboveground so she could get to her Plans sooner, and finally Buffy was alone with Spike under the dim light of the manhole again, except this time they had nowhere to be, not right away, and it was weird, really weird, not to be struggling to fit every possible ounce of sexytimes into an overly tight schedule, and somehow they just glided into a tight, unhurried embrace, oozed together like jelly, like Forbidden Fruit Jam, and it was such a relief Buffy started to cry.

She had to give Spike credit, he didn’t do any of the things guys usually did that she hated, like begging her to stop crying or trying to get her to talk it out or acting like it was a personal affront to him that she would cry in his presence; he just stroked her hair and made noncommittal, encouraging noises and occasionally kissed her gently on the forehead, lips vibrating like butterfly wings, and let her cry it out, and it occurred to her that it was pretty handy, having a sort-of-boyfriend who knew how to handle The Crazy, even if he was the one who was causing most of The Crazy, just by existing.

It didn’t last long, her little weepy fiesta, because she wasn’t actually sad or upset right now, just tired and a little frustrated and a whole lot worn out from the emotional rollercoaster of the day, plus being all pressed up against Spike reminded her that she had made him a promise of SOON, so she slid her hand up between them, but before she even got to her destination, he caught her hand in his and lifted it to his lips. “Not here.”

That was a bit of a surprise, because she had kind of thought Spike was the non-picky one when it came to venue. “I thought here was, um, one of our places.” She glanced around in confusion. He hadn’t previously complained about the ladder, or the wall, or that other wall, or that OTHER other wall, and she knew it wasn’t because he wasn’t interested because, hello! She’d just been all pressed up against him and some things were hard to miss. (HARD to miss, her dirty mind repeated, in case the non-dirty part of her, tiny as it was, had missed the innuendo the first time she thought it.)

Spike nibbled along her knuckles, reassuringly. “Nothing wrong with here as a general rule, pet. Just, there was mention of a dorm room.” He pressed his lips tenderly to the center of her palm. “Have a fancy to be… invited in by an alluring co-ed.” Certain parts of her quivered in definite invitation.

Buffy closed her eyes as he kissed the inside of her wrist, lingering. “Well, I was thinking I needed to get some more clothes,” she said as normally as she could manage. “You could help me… carry things.” She was actually thinking of him actually helping her carry her clothes back to Giles’s apartment, but she said it like it was an innuendo anyhow, and she suspected from the way his hand shook on hers that he had managed to come up with a dirty interpretation of it that he would hopefully share with her later.

“As a gentleman, it would be my… pleasure,” he purred into the crook of her elbow, and she could tell that was not an innuendo at all, just a statement of fact, that he was planning on some heavy-duty pleasure, which was good, because so was she. God, she hoped Willow’s Plans for the afternoon were extensive and time-consuming.

His lips and teeth had made it up to her bicep, which tickled a little, and it was enough to shake her out of her daze, remind her that there was a dorm room waiting and some inviting in to do and some serious pleasure to be gotten down to, so she placed her hands on Spike’s cheeks and he gladly eased up for a kiss, and she took his hands, his hands that she liked so much, and squeezed them. “Think we’ve given Willow enough of a head start?” she said softly.

“God, I hope so,” he said, eyes laughing. “Otherwise she’ll be terribly embarrassed when you start having your wicked way with me.”

Buffy laughed, and Spike tugged her in the right direction to get to the dorms, and she didn’t even bother digging out her flashlight because his hand was firm in hers and he could see better than her and she knew he wouldn’t let her fall.

***

Along the walk, Buffy had been entertaining thoughts of entertaining Spike on her dorm room bed, which was a really crappy bed, the hard no-box-springs kind that only college students and prison inmates were expected to sleep on – and she was a little of both these days, so extra-appropriate – but was at least horizontal and not actually made of stone, and thus a step up in some ways. Unfortunately, after they had navigated the basement (who knew how many campus buildings had sewer access?) and the shadowed back stairs to avoid the windowed lobby and hall, and she had unlocked the door with fumbling fingers and stepped inside and turned with appropriate ceremony to say, “Come in, Spike,” voice shaking with desire, she realized that she had forgotten about all of the windows, and that her room was on the side of the dorm that got sunlight all day long, just slanting through in different directions, so Spike could only come about four feet into the room before the nearness of the light striping through the blinds was too much and he had to stop short.

“Well, this is a predicament,” he said in frustration.

Buffy closed and locked the door behind him, and glared at the room. Willow had obviously been and gone; her discarded sweater-vest and blouse had been tossed over the corner of the bed, as if Willow had been in a hurry. “Sorry. This, um, doesn’t really work too well, does it?” She stalked over and closed the blinds more, so that at least the bands of light striping the floor and wall (and OF COURSE her bed) were narrow instead of big honking beams of vampire-dustage. She considered trying to close the curtains, but she knew from one too many trying-to-sleep-in mornings that they didn’t do much of anything to block the light from hitting her bed, and it seemed like a lot of trouble for no payoff.

Spike was leaning up against the door, hands shoved in the pockets of his duster, looking pouty, and she sighed. “This sucks.”

“Could wait until sunset,” Spike suggested, a hint of desperation in his voice as he eyed the bed.

“It’s barely lunch time,” Buffy griped. “That’s WAY too many hours.” She eyed the doorway speculatively. “You’re safe right there, though?”

“Guess so. At least for now.”

“Well, that’s something.” She looked at him, standing in the cool shadows, twitching hands and fidgeting feet and his eyes watching her hungrily, and she suddenly stepped away from the windows and stood between the two beds, feeling the light from the noontime sun banded across her back. She smiled, and it felt like she was glowing, like the sun’s light was soaking in through her pores and beaming out from her eyes, and Spike saw it too, from the way he was watching her now, almost in awe. “Guess you’ll have to look but not touch, then,” she said, and her voice was that of a goddess, a glowing goddess, and she pulled her shirt over her head in one swift movement.

Spike inhaled sharply, and instinctively took a step forward, and she glared at him and shook her head, and he eyed the innocent-seeming bands of light on the floor and settled back, leaning against the door again, but no longer lazily; he was tense and watchful and he folded his arms and leaned his head back so that he was looking down his nose a bit, eyes almost closed, and when Buffy was sure his attention was all on her again, she resumed. She stood in the stripes of sunlight slicing through the blinds and took off her boots and her jeans and her bra and her panties and her socks until she was completely naked, turning slowly so the light angled over her from different directions. Spike’s eyes watched her every move, and she wished she knew how to dance, not the fun party-dancing or awkward couples-dancing she did at the Bronze like every teenager, but some fancy exotic dance meant to drive men wild, maybe with seven veils, but from the look on Spike’s face she didn’t need any veils, he was under her spell, and when she was done she stood in the light and let him look his fill, and then walked forward into his shadows, until she was right in front of him, tingling breasts nearly brushing against his folded arms. He didn’t move, but he opened his mouth as if to speak; she put a finger on his lips.

“Shhh,” she whispered. “People will hear.” And she slid her finger in a straight line down his chin and his throat and his chest and over his arms and down his belly to the button of his jeans, and he closed his eyes the rest of the way and swore softly as she undid his button and his zipper and pulled his cock out, stroking gently. She looked at his face, the way the tendons of his jaw twitched, and waited for him to open his eyes again, and when he finally did, she smiled, a goddess smile, a Sex Goddess smile, and tightened her hand. “So, how about here and now? Is here and now good?”

Spike grinned back, teeth bright and sharp. “Here and now is BRILLIANT,” he said in a low, rough voice.

Buffy kept stroking, bringing her other hand down to join in. “Good. Because if you will recall, we had a little bit of a race earlier. And I won.”

“So you did.” He shifted against the door, hips twitching forward.

“So do I get a prize?” She tugged gently, a subtle hint, just in case he was thinking of suggesting a medal or a trophy or something else useless.

“You do,” he agreed. “You can have whatever you want, pet.”

“Yay me,” Buffy said, in a whispery, throaty voice she barely recognized as her own, and she sank down to her knees and took him in her mouth, and his hands were in her hair, gentle and worshipful, a concession of victory, and she smiled around him and savored her triumph, settling in to feast.

***

When the banquet was finished, the tang of Spike lingering in her mouth, Buffy tucked him away and zipped him up and gathered up her blankets and pillows from her bed and brought them over to the shadowed doorway, making a little nest around Spike’s feet and encouraging him to lie down; he reclined against the pillows like a sultan, and she walked naked around the room, enjoying the heat of the sunlight and the heat of Spike’s eyes on her as she collected the things she wanted to take back to Giles’s – a few magazines, some more makeup, some textbooks in case she wanted to study (hey, it could happen!) – and stuffed them in her backpack. When that was done, she moved on to pulling clothes out of her closet and drawers and asking Spike which she should take with her this time, and he indulged her by giving real advice, even though most of his advice boiled down to how sexy he thought a given outfit was and how much he wanted to rip it off her, and when she had finally gathered up everything she needed she came over to where Spike was lounging and curled up against him. He was still fully clothed, though he had tossed the duster aside at some point, and it made her feel illicit and naughty, being the only naked one, so she let him keep his clothes on, every stitch, just lying naked on top of him and kissing him until he was robbed of speech.

After a bit she rolled off of him, tugging one of the pillows under her head, and he shifted to lie on his side, propped up on one elbow, running his other hand all over her naked body, heavy-lidded eyes following his fingers over shoulders, down her hips and her legs, across her dirty stomach… He stopped short, looking sharply down and stroking again, more slowly. His fingers rubbed the gritty black dirt into her skin, over and over, fingers splaying out across the curve of her belly. Buffy watched his hand so she didn’t have to look at his face, and also because she just liked his hands.

Finally, he lifted his hand, rubbing his dusty fingers together. “What’s this, pet?” he said, voice conversational.

“Dirt,” Buffy shrugged.

“And how’d it get there?” His voice was silk. He traced whorls in the traces of dirt around her navel.

“Duh. You rubbed it all over me.” She rolled her eyes.

They both watched his hand on her stomach for a while longer, until Spike said in a husky whisper, “Thought you washed it all off.”

Buffy looked off to the side, at the stripes of sunlight on the floor, feeling her bottom lip beginning to pout. “Didn’t want to. That was your idea, and you’re not the boss of me.”

Spike laughed shakily, his hand splaying out strong and pulling Buffy against him, her back snug against his front. He kissed her shoulder. “That I most definitely am not. God.” His voice shook. He ran his lips up her trapezius, whispering something unintelligible.

“What was that?” Buffy whispered, not wanting to miss anything important.

Spike pressed his forehead into the bend of her neck. “Thought I was just seeing things, when you were walking around the room. Trick of the shadows.” His hand was still on her stomach, pulsing gently.

“No, it’s real dirt,” Buffy said archly. “I’m a dirty, dirty girl.” She wriggled against him, because somehow this had turned into a much more intense conversation than she had expected, not at all simple, and also feeling his hand rubbing the dirt into her again was making her dizzy with desire, making her wonder how the grit would feel in other places, though she was a bit concerned about some of the places because she was still a little sore, but she trusted Spike to take care of that for her, and she twisted around and pulled his head down to her, and he seemed to have the same idea, his lips urgent and eager and seeking.

He moved over her as she slid to her back, knelt over her thighs and sat up, looking down at her nakedness, still fully clothed himself, and his nostrils flared and he put a hand on each breast, and she arched up because one hand was still clean and the other was dirty dirty dirty, and now she knew that that felt like, the difference between the two, his dirty fingers pinching and stroking, and when she couldn’t wait for him to move on to the next item on the agenda anymore she grabbed his dirty hand – she didn’t need to look, she could tell by feel which one it was – and she slid it down between her legs, pinned open by the weight of his thighs, and he closed his eyes and laughed again and stroked her, gently, testing, and the dirt felt fabulous at first, a glorious friction, twice as glorious because she knew it was dirt, but then as she grew hotter and wetter and Spike stroked harder it started to be too much, too close to sandpaper, and she winced a bit. Spike felt her wince and pulled his hand out, bringing it back to her breast, sliding her own wetness and the remaining dirt all over her nipple again, and she stifled a cry – she could hear people walking by her door, they would hear her, they would know room 214 was the home of a dirty dirty girl – and arched her back and her head slipped off the pillow and hit the floor, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make a thunk, and Spike curled down to her and kissed her tenderly, and tucked the pillow back under her head and nestled her more securely in her comforter.

But she didn’t want to be coddled, she wanted to be fucked, and so she kissed him again, hard, and pushed his head down, and he didn’t waste any more time, he knew what she wanted, taking her hips and scooting her in her blanket-nest out away from the door until her upper body was all striped in sunlight again, so that he had room to slide down between her legs, tenderly opening them wide with his palms flat against her inner thighs. He bent to her like he was prostrating himself before a goddess, tongue gentle and thorough, cleaning away the last traces of dirt and grit, and when it was all gone he sat back on his heels and scooped his arms under her hips and pulled her up to meet his mouth until she was off the blanket except for her shoulders and her head, the sun in her eyes, her bare feet dangling against his back, and he gave her one long intense lick and she came hard, blindingly, arching her back and kicking out at the door and barely managing not to scream, and he let her down to the ground gently and rose up, frantically unfastening his jeans, and she somehow got her limbs working again and crawled over to him and up him, pushing him back on his heels and sliding her thighs alongside his hips and pulling his delicious cock out of his unfastened zipper, sliding on to him like butter, and he pumped up into her, muttering into her throat, and she pumped back, clenching around him with all the pent-up frustration of the morning, and she fucked him and fucked him until she came again, sinking her teeth into his black-and-red-covered shoulder to keep from yelling, and his eyes flew wide and he convulsed under her, she could feel his cock throbbing as he emptied himself, and they fell back against the door, clutched together, and Buffy remembered that she had forgotten to put a sock on the doorknob to warn Willow to stay away, and she started to laugh.

After a bit Spike slipped out from under her, skirting the slashes of sunlight to get to the little sink next to the door. He ran the water for a few seconds until it was warm, dampened a washcloth, brought it back to where Buffy was heaving and gasping and still laughing a bit in the tangle of her comforter, and gently cleaned her off from head to toe, long wet strokes, along her arms and legs and down her back, and over her sweaty armpits and her throat and her tender breasts and down between her legs, and finally across her grimy stomach, wiping all the dirt and sweat away until she was pristine, and then finally gave himself a brisk little scrub and zipped up again, returning to the sink to rinse out the washcloth and drape it out to dry, and then he sank down next to her and pulled her against him and leaned against the door with a sigh, lips moving in her hair.

Buffy snuggled her head against his chest and watched the bars of sunlight stretch further and further across the floor, and dozed off for a bit, and when she opened her eyes again the sunlight was almost gone and golden with impending sunset. She stood up and stretched and kicked the reeking-of-sex comforter off into the corner, and pulled a clean sock out of her drawers and nudged Spike aside so she could open the door and hang it on the doorknob and then lock it up tight again, and she tugged at the hem of his shirt until he helped her take it off, and then he slipped off his boots and his jeans too so they were both naked except for the anklets that bound them. He kissed her sweetly up against the door until the sun finished going down, and then they moved to the bed in the blue dusk and Buffy pulled him down on top of her and they kissed some more, and then he finally slid inside her, and they pulsed together for a long while, and Buffy wanted to cry because it was so beautiful and tender and even if he was still Drusilla’s he was treating her as if she, Buffy, was his one woman, as if he was Buffy’s man, as if he was in love with her, and even though she wasn’t in love with him, she knew now that she did like him, a lot, a whole lot, and that was something, so she held him close and murmured sweet encouragement in his ear and kissed him tenderly, and when he finally gasped in her ear and shuddered against her, she sank her hands into his tumbled hair and cradled him to her breast and forgave him for not being in love with her, because that wouldn’t be fair anyhow, and she felt calmed and cleansed and purified, and then finally they cleaned up again, together, and he put on his grungy blacks again while she slipped into a slutty outfit for the Bronze – maybe a little extra-slutty, for Spike – and he picked up her bags and she retrieved the sock from the doorknob and tossed it into the corner with the comforter and the sheets off the bed, mentally vowing to come do her laundry really really soon (because she didn’t think she could sneak the dirty bedding past Giles, and it really did kind of reek) and finally she turned off the lights and locked up the door and headed off into the evening with Spike, glad not to have to take the sewers for once.

And Willow didn’t come home at all.

 

END CHAPTER 10

Chapter 10 Authors Notes:

Thanks to Irish comedian Dave Allen for the “little blue dots” joke.

Slight homage to Dr. Seuss’s “How the Grinch Stole Christmas.” I really wanted to work in a Dr. Seuss joke around the “ho down in Hoville” bit, but it didn’t fit anywhere. Something like “Every Ho down in Hoville liked Spikey a lot/But the Slayer who lived north of Hoville did not.” It is probably for the best that this didn’t work out.


	11. Relaxation

Sunnydale Police Chief Benson was Not Happy.

First of all, he had on his desk a rejected request for a warrant to search a certain Rupert Giles’s apartment. Apparently the judge did not consider a clear bootprint and Officers Kemp and Thomas’s sworn witness that individuals resembling Ms. Buffy Summers and her vandal paramour had been spotted fleeing the crime scene “sufficient evidence” for a search-and-seizure related to the heinous destruction of the taxpayer-funded ‘Welcome to Sunnydale’ Sign. To add insult to injury, the judge had appended a Post-It note for Benson’s eyes only. It read, “Shouldn’t you be more worried about the prolific and stealthy coyote menace?” Benson had precisely removed the note, ripped it in two, and deposited it in the trashcan. Goddamn activist judges and their insistence that hardened criminals had “rights.” If only the Special Tracking Anklets handed down from his predecessor had come with appropriate legal documentation. Mr. Spike and Ms. Buffy Summers would have another task appended to their reparations and a hefty fine, Sunnydale’s Very Expensive Sign would be repaired, and Benson would get to gloat some more. It was a crime how the technicalities of the Law could get in the way of Justice.

Secondly, he also had on his desk a formal typed request from Officer Marie Michaels for a duty reassignment, which meant he had to find another officer to cover the Spike Shift. And while there were no shortage of officers, detectives, and clerical staff willing to take on the duty, finding one who was actually interested in doing their actual job on the Spike Shift was another matter entirely. He would have to have his (thankfully EXTREMELY loyal) administrative assistant run a check of the candidates’ printing history, marital status, and personal use of (he shuddered) The Internets before he could make a decision. And he would have to pay overtime for Ms. Frazier’s work if he expected to have it done by Monday. Which was a great deal of money to account for. Goddamn government employee contracts.

He squared the papers next to each other, frowning thoughtfully. He knew, knew deep in his gut, that Spike was Bad News for Sunnydale, and that the innocent-seeming Buffy Summers was just as bad, if not worse. Yet without hard evidence, there was little political will to make them pay. It was a definite conundrum, but he supposed the solution was simple.

They would just have to catch the foul criminals in the act.

He buzzed Ms. Frazier on the intercom, requesting she bring him the duty rosters for that evening. The tracking data might be inadmissible in court, but it was still extremely useful in keeping tabs on the unrepentant vandals. Who were almost certainly also thieves, murderers, and tax cheats. (Very convenient, that lost-documentation story.)

They would assuredly break the law again. Probably that very evening.

And his officers would be there, handcuffs waiting, when it happened.

\---

The Bronze was hopping, even for a Friday night, which Buffy supposed was to be expected on the first weekend of Winter Break, but was a little frustrating because she was not so much in the mood for a crowd, especially a crowd that might include any number of secret commandoes looking to take out Spike. Plus there was always a subtle tension between the college crowd and the townies that was especially irritating to her, because she was both, though she leaned townie-ward at the Bronze for nostalgia’s sake. She wanted a nice relaxing evening with her friends, some good best-girlfriend schmoozing with Willow, some dancing, and maybe some secret smooching with Spike in a corner, but that would all be hard to do if jerky frat-boys had taken up all the good tables. (Though Xander was pretty genius at claiming territory, especially now that he had Anya to give would-be poachers nasty looks with a thousand years of vengeance behind them. She had the crazy eyes down pat.) It was awfully tempting, looking at the long line, to just call it a night and take Spike off somewhere private for their own Friday night party.

But Buffy got in line anyhow, because she had promised Willow and Xander, tugging Spike next to her when he looked like he planned on intimidating the bouncer into letting them line-jump, and dug in her sassy clutch for the cover charge. Two people’s worth, because she was pretty sure Spike didn’t have the cash to go Dutch.

Spike glared at her. “You shouldn’t have to wait, Slayer. You’re a VIP.”

Buffy gave him a wry look. “Yeah, NOT. Slaying doesn’t come with special Bronze privileges. I only get to go to the head of the line for mayhem and premature death.” She tugged at one of his belt loops. “Besides, I don’t mind getting in there a little later. Having a little time to ourselves.” She tilted her head up for a kiss.

Spike kissed her back, hard, in that way that said he was pissed off again. “Yeah,” he muttered, looking away.

“What’s wrong?” Buffy said gently. Well, not that gently, because old habits were hard to break, but she did go for the nicey-nice phrasing instead of “Geez, what’s your problem?” which should have earned her some gentleness points. Tender, sweet Buffy was a work in progress.

Spike lit up a cigarette, stalling, then looked up at her fiercely. “Just, what is this?”

“What is what?” Buffy frowned.

“This.” Spike waved his cigarette around, indicating the Bronze and Buffy and possibly the couple that was making out in front of them, though probably not because she was pretty sure Spike had a handle on that sort of thing.

“I…” Buffy sighed. “I’m not sure. I’ve just been, you know, going with the flow. Carpe-ing the diem.” She leaned her shoulder up against the wall, looking out into the darkness. “Living.”

Spike leaned up against the wall next to her with a huff of frustration. He was silent through several puffs of his cigarette, until the line moved and they had to move with it. “So,” he said finally, voice low. “When we get in there, what am I supposed to do?”

“What do you usually do at the Bronze? Drink beer, play pool?” She looked at him curiously. “Do you dance?”

“You know what I mean,” Spike said bitterly. “Isn’t this the part when you tell me to stay away from you around your Scooby chums so nobody knows about us?” He took another drag on his cigarette. “Not that I mind avoiding their company, mind you. Just not keen on being your dirty little secret.” He sent her a hot little glance that said he didn’t so much mind the dirty part of that last bit.

Buffy looked at him thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I’ve never really had to do this before. I mean, obviously not, but REALLY never done anything like this before.” She sank back against the wall again, feeling her hair catch on the rough surface. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know what I want to do.

Spike moved abruptly so his elbows were on either side of her head, hands against the wall, his face right up in hers. “You said I was your boyfriend.”

“I did,” Buffy admitted quietly, looking him straight in the eye. “You are. But it’s taking some getting used to. I, um, never expected this. At all. It’s kind of… all muddled together in my head. All wanting, and seizing the day, and thinking way too much, and it’s like… It’s like I want to have some time to process it all myself, you know? I don’t want to go in there and be all, ‘hey guys, Spike and I have been having lots of really fantastic sex’ because it’s really not any of their business, right? I mean, it’s not something I usually talk about. It’s personal, and it’s mine and it’s yours, and it’s not theirs.” She looked away. “I don’t want my sex life to be tonight’s grand topic of discussion. I had enough of that with… I’ve had enough of that. And that was when I wasn’t even HAVING any sex. Tonight, I want to talk about stupid pointless things and maybe dance a little or maybe play some pool, and just relax.”

Spike pressed his forehead to hers, a little calmer, but still quivering with frustration. “Want to be able to touch you.”

Buffy started tilting up for a kiss, but she heard a pointedly cleared throat behind them, and a muttered “get a room!” and looked over to see the line had moved again. She ducked under Spike’s arm and drew him along with her, firmly setting his back to the wall when they had closed the gap. She caught his resentful gaze again. “Then touch me. You can touch me, Spike.” She tucked her chin down a bit, looking up into Spike’s face sternly. “But I don’t want to put on a sex show for the whole club. Can we agree on that?”

Spike looked at her measuringly, then leaned in close. “What if I make sure nobody sees?” He brushed his lips against her earlobe. “Because I’d wager I can make you come without any of your precious Scoobies noticing a thing.”

Buffy trembled. “Oh. That would be… Yeah. You could do that.”

Spike grinned. “Don’t mind being that sort of secret. The wicked kind.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Buffy smiled wryly, tugging Spike a little further up the line. Something across the street caught her eye, and she pulled Spike in front of her again, glaring over his shoulder. “Crap. Don’t turn around.”

Spike pulled himself up, eyes lit with anticipation, ready for battle. “Demons?”

“Worse!” Buffy hissed. “Cops!”

Spike gave her a what-the-hell look. “Hate to break it to you, Slayer, but we’re not actually breaking any laws here.”

“Yeah, but…” Buffy grimaced in frustration. “They’re totally WATCHING us. It’s creepy.”

Spike lifted his chin, looking down his nose challengingly, nostrils flaring. “Can make you come without the police noticing either.”

“That is SO not what I meant.”

Spike took her hand, lifted it for a showily tender kiss on the wrist. “Happy to play the devoted, law-abiding husband all evening, if that would help.” He smiled slowly. “Bet the Scoobies would just love to play along.”

Buffy looked at him askance. “You just want to…get everything you want. Spend the whole night with me, being all snuggly, and rub my friends’ noses in it, and not have to deal with any actual social consequences.” Actually, that all sounded really good to her too, laid out in words like that. Especially the snuggly bit.

Spike shrugged. “Well, yeah.” He eyed her speculatively. “I suppose you’re telling me you don’t?”

Buffy glared at him for a moment longer, then relented and shook her head. “You are impossible.”

“Impossibly hot,” Spike said in a deep velvet voice, laughter in his eyes. “I have it on good authority that I am also a fantastic shag.”

And Buffy laughed at that, because he was, and he REALLY was, and they were at the front of the line anyhow so she paid their cover to the bored bouncer – ignoring Spike’s mutterings about how he never paid for the fucking Bronze – and they swept inside, and out of the corner of her eye Buffy saw a policeman flash a badge at the bouncer and follow them in, and she laughed and didn’t care because fun wasn’t illegal and she could see that Xander had in fact nabbed them the BEST table, the low one with the comfy couches all around, and Anya was guarding it like it was Fort Knox, and even though Willow wasn’t there yet, Buffy just knew in her bones it was going to be a wonderful night. Especially since she didn’t have to get up and help Spike clean again until MONDAY.

She took Spike by the hand and waved at Xander with her other hand, and smiled.

\---

Xander was definitely giving them the stink-eye, or the deeply-traumatized-eye at least, but luckily Spike didn’t waste any time in getting busy on the rubbing-his-nose-in-it part of the evening’s agenda, making a big dramatic fuss about his ‘blushing bride’ and talking about their sunny Hawaiian honeymoon, and while Xander just looked more and more confused at that, Anya saw the policemen who were taking up positions around their table like obnoxious blue vultures and made a comment about handcuffs, and once Xander caught on he subsided into his couch, letting Anya whisper probably-naughty things into his ear, though he still kept glancing over at Buffy and Spike with a look of baffled disgust. Which Buffy actually found kind of funny, because all they were doing was holding hands and making obnoxious over-the-top googly eyes at each other for the sake of their police audience, and not doing anything sexy at ALL. Well, at least not where Xander could see. Spike’s duster did have a convenient drape to it.

Then Willow showed up after another twenty minutes, and Buffy scooted Spike over so Willow could fit in next to her, all glowing and smiling in her purple top. It was purely a coincidence that this meant Buffy had to practically sit in Spike’s lap, of course, allowing him to plant showy kisses along her neck and toy with the strings holding her red halter top on. Xander stared agog for a minute, then abruptly excused himself to go get more Coke.

Anya smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Buffy. He’ll get used to your fake-marriage someday.”

Willow rolled her eyes. “Sure he will.” She gave Spike a pointed look. “Hey, loverboy. Any way I could have some, you know, girl-talk with your fake-wife?”

Spike looked at her carefully, then shrugged. “Yeah, all right.” He took Buffy by the waist and held her up so he could scoot out from under her. “Been fancying a game of pool.” She pouted up at him.

Anya brightened. “Xander and I like pool! He’s been teaching me how to do bank shots. Though Xander’s teaching style seems to be more about smooshing his body up against mine in public than about angles and technique.” She looked happily off at Xander, up at the bar. “I think that’s why we like pool.”

Spike looked at her assessingly, then shrugged. “You can play too. Get your man and nab us a table, would you, luv?” He looked at Buffy with an odd smile. “You ladies enjoy your chat. Need a drink, kitten?”

Buffy held up her mostly-full Diet Coke. “I’m good.”

“I could go for a club soda,” Willow said cheerfully. Spike nodded and headed for the bar.

Buffy watched him go. “Huh.” He really was taking the law-abiding, behaving, not-being-bad part seriously. Then she turned and gave Willow a quick once-over. “Looking good, Wills! I told you the purple was the way to go.” Buffy squinted at Willow’s face in the dim lighting. “Oh, but you’ve chewed all the lip gloss off. Want me to touch it up?”

Willow turned a little red. “Uh, sure!”

Buffy pulled out the Pink Rhapsody and dabbed it on Willow’s lips. “There you go! Good as new.”

Spike returned then with Willow’s club soda, planting a quick smooch on the top of Buffy’s head before heading off to the pool table where Anya was waiting eagerly with a sick-looking Xander. Buffy watched him go, a little wistfully, but Willow wanted girl-talk and thus girl-talk she would get. Buffy scooched back on the sofa and leaned on her elbow across the back.

“So Willow! You promised you’d give me all the deets about the Riley-dumpage.” Buffy grinned bloodthirstily. “Did he cry? He should have cried.”

“Alas, even being dumped by the glory that is me did not bring him to tears.” Willow shook her head mournfully. “He was like a Johnny Cash song brought to life, all Midwestern and stoic.”

“What a pity.” Buffy said it kind of tongue-in-cheek, because of course it was cruel to laugh at the misery of rejected men, but then again if Riley was in fact one of the commandoes that had been making her life miserable – and while she still had trouble seeing it, she totally believed Spike’s accusations towards Walsh, which made it a lot more plausible – he totally deserved to have a sucky love life. Not that her life was miserable. Actually, the commandoes were more kind of buzzing around like gnats on the edge of her life, annoying but pathetic, but she still didn’t like them terrorizing her lover. Even though he wouldn’t and couldn’t be her lover if they hadn’t done the chip thing. So maybe she should actually send Riley and Walsh a thank you card… She suddenly realized that Willow was still silent, looking thoughtfully at her drink, and gave her a little shove on the arm, grinning. “But anyhow, I’m sure he’ll manage to find some boring Midwestern girl who actually likes low-fat yogurt, someday.”

Willow took a sip of her club soda, glancing off at the dance floor. “Yeah, low-fat yogurt is definitely not for me. Actually, I’m not sure I’m, um, into dairy products at all.” She sipped at her drink again, face glowing red under the Bronze lights. “I’ve been, uh, looking into some other food groups.” Her eyes went a little unfocused, a tiny smile creeping onto her face, but then she shook herself. “Oh! But Riley actually said he was leaving town. Like, today.”

Buffy shrugged. “Well, it is Winter Break. I’m sure there’s some vitally important winter-corn-thing going down in Iowa he has to rush back for.”

“No, I mean leaving town for good. At least that was the impression I got. He said he was being transferred.”

“Wait, so he’s not going to be our TA anymore?” That might be good, seeing as he was the one who graded their papers, and she wasn’t sure he wasn’t the kind of petty guy who would mark down the papers of girls who had dumped him. Which was why TAs weren’t even supposed to date undergrads in their classes. And actually, the fact that he had even tried to, twice, was a big old checkmark in the ‘would totally mark down the papers of girls who had dumped him’ column. Low-fat yogurt was obviously not to be trusted.

Willow leaned in, eyes big and excited. “That’s what I asked! And then he said that Walsh wasn’t even coming back, but that I couldn’t tell anyone, because it was classified and he shouldn’t even have told me. So I knew I needed to tell you, because WEIRD, huh?”

“Totally weird.” Buffy drank more of her Diet Coke, eyes wandering over to where Spike was playing pool, giving one of their police watchdogs an ironic nod along the way. “Spike said he thinks Riley was one of the commandoes that captured him, and that Walsh was there somehow too.” She scanned the crowd again. Wow, there were actually a LOT of Sunnydale’s Finest here tonight. Most of them gathered around the pool tables. She narrowed her eyes. Mostly FEMALE officers gathered around the pool tables.

“Huh.” Willow thought about that for a moment. “I can see that. He has kind of that Teutonic, easy-to-brainwash feel to him. Kind of like a really tall overage Hitler Youth.”

Buffy spluttered on her drink. “Willow! That’s awful!” But now that Willow mentioned it, she could totally see Riley with that big vacant grin of his and a big old swastika armband. Grinning vacantly and cheerfully while he tortured Spike. And suddenly she looked over at Spike and she needed to do something, because that was an awful awful image and she wanted it gone from her head, like, NOW.

Willow was still talking. “And then there’s what happened to Lowell House…”

But Buffy was already moving, with an absent “Just a sec, Wills,” and she hurried up to Spike, who was watching Xander line up his shot, and gave him a quick hug from behind. Except it wasn’t as quick as she had planned, because she couldn’t help but linger because it felt nice.

Spike looked at her over his shoulder, eyes narrow. “What’s this about, Slayer?”

She squeezed him, shutting her eyes. “I believe you about Riley,” she whispered, feeling him tense up, then relax, laying a hand over her arms in acknowledgment. She let him go, smoothing his duster over his shoulders. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t fighting with Xander too much, sweetie,” she said in a louder voice.

Spike grinned at that, turning and tugging her to him by the waistband of her skirt. “Of course not, pet,” he said loudly, running a hand lovingly down her face. “Xander is an extremely important friend of yours, and as your husband, I am more than happy to bond with him in a socially and legally acceptable male-bonding fashion.” He leaned in to kiss her ear. “Actually, he hasn’t said a word since we started playing. I think we have deeply scarred him.”

Buffy smiled at Xander over Spike’s shoulder. He did look rather shell-shocked, frozen mid-shot staring at them. “Well, he’ll have to deal with it, because I consider convincing the SPD of our law-abiding marriedness way more important than his fragile drama-king psyche. That jail SMELLS.”

“I’m bonding too!” Anya chirped, raising a hand. Xander flinched at the sound of her voice, accidentally taking his shot. He managed to sink three balls, the cue ball rolling gently to a stop perfectly in line for another.

Spike cursed under his breath. “Mind shoving off, kitten? Apparently Xander plays better when his brain is disengaged. Trying to get a round of drinks out of him here.” He slid his hands around to her back, slipping his fingers under the strings of her halter. “Can come snog more after I separate him from some of his hard-earned cash.”

Buffy pouted up at him. “No fleecing my friends. Not even Xander, the only one among us with an actual paid job.” She pressed up lightly against him trying to subtly convey that she was totally one-hundred-percent up for the snogging any time he wanted. Like now.

Spike eyed her pouty lower lip, face resigned. “Won’t cheat, love.” He looked back at Xander, who was setting up for his next shot. “Won’t need to if you head back to your girly-girl time with the witch.”

Buffy stuck out her lower lip some more until he finally took the hint and kissed her, lightly, and she smiled and pressed her forehead against his chin for a moment and headed back to Willow under the furious glares of a half-dozen ladies-in-uniform. Willow was watching her speculatively, and Buffy gave her a brilliant, innocent smile. “Sorry to run off like that. Needed to give Spike some, um, information.” She glared at the shamelessly-eavesdropping policemen that were nonchalantly hovering around their couches. Totally not fair how Spike got the groupies and she got the hardasses out of the police escort. “Married-people-having-a-totally-legal-date-night information. Thank you for guarding my no-alcohol-because-I-am-under-the-legal-drinking-age drink.”

Willow settled back knowingly, hands cradling her club soda as if it were a martini. “I totally understand, Buffy. You just keep on keeping Spike informed.”

Buffy sank into the couch next to her. “So, do I get to hear any more about these Plans of yours that somehow merited the Sexy Purple Top of Sexiness?”

Willow’s demeanor shifted immediately from confident to uncomfortable. “Um, am I a bad friend if I say no?” She curled her hands protectively around her drink.

“No! No, you could never be a bad friend.” Buffy picked up her drink again, thinking that if there was a Bad Friend on this couch, it was almost certainly the one making time with the undead in front of her besties and most of the Sunnydale police force, and making other-things-besides-time when not in front of an audience.

Willow looked at her steadily for a moment, then set her drink down and leaned in closer. “I don’t mean to be all secretive and withhold-y. It’s just…” She blew her hair out of her face. “It’s not like it was in high school, when everyone knew who was holding hands by the lockers and we were all worried about who to go to dances with and everything was all laid out in the open whether you wanted it that way or not. I just feel like, now, there’s stuff I just don’t want to talk about yet. Grownup kind of stuff. And it’s not because I don’t trust my friends, or like I don’t think it’s important, or like I’m trying to be all James Bond and plausibly-deniable. I, um, just want to have something that’s all mine, you know? Something that I can hold on to, and think about, and come to a decision on, without everyone getting all up in my decision-making-process.” She looked uncertainly at Buffy. “You know that when I’m ready to talk about it, we’ll talk, right?”

Buffy looked back, feeling oddly vulnerable. “Yeah. We’ll, um, we’ll talk when the time is right.” About a lot of things.

Willow crooked a half-smile at Buffy. “Because I think we can both agree that our social group is just a little intense.”

They both looked over at the pool table, where Spike and Anya were cheerily discussing something while Xander sank another ball, eyes like black holes.

“Yeah,” Buffy agreed fervently. “That’s one way of putting it.”

Willow poked at her ice with her little red cocktail straw. “And, um, you know, I can understand if you have things you’re not ready to talk about yet either.” She looked up with a little smile. “You know that when you are ready to talk, I’m here.”

Buffy thought of Spike, and smooches, and sex, and REALLY not being ready, and looked gratefully at Willow. “Yeah. If I ever have any stuff like that, you know I’ll talk to you. When I’m ready.”

“And it’s okay if you’re not ready right away. Or for a long time.” Willow looked at her ice again, then lifted her cup to crunch up a piece. “I won’t be mad.”

“Me neither.” Buffy gave Willow a sly grin. “Though I expect some serious dishing when the time comes. I was at the dorm room for HOURS and you never came back.”

“I went back to the dorm room!” Willow protested. “Right before I came here.” She gave Buffy a half-hearted glare. “And while I am sticking to my guns about the no-talking-till-you’re-ready thing, I do think eventually I deserve an explanation for that hole in the door.”

“Oh, um, wow.” Buffy stuttered. “Is there a hole in the door now? I, um, hadn’t noticed.” She guiltily recalled kicking the door in the middle of the afternoon, when Spike was getting all wickedly oral on her dirty, dirty self. She hoped Willow hadn’t been too curious about the bedding in the corner. “Guess I should get that fixed.”

Willow grinned, most of the tension gone. “As long as you don’t expect me to pay for it.”

“Oh, no, this one’s all on me,” Buffy said hurriedly. They sat in silence for a little while. Finally Buffy sighed. “You know, I’m really totally cool with our New World Order of waiting until we’re ready to talk about stuff, but I do really have a hankering for some best-friend gossiping.”

Willow nodded in glum agreement. “Yeah.” She sat up suddenly. “Oooh, maybe we need to come up with some sort of code!”

“Code?”

“Yeah, like numbers or something, so we can talk about all the not-ready-to-talk-about stuff without actually having to talk about it. Like, I don’t know, a 1 for holding hands, and a 2 for smooching and so on.”

Buffy wondered dizzily just what number she and Spike would be at using such a code. 8? 753? “Um, we could do that,” she hedged.

Willow went on, excited. “That way we can talk about our snugglebunnies without revealing any actual pertinent information.” She clapped her hands once, decisively, and pointed at Buffy. “We could call it the Snugglebunny Scale!”

Buffy laughed at that, and curled up with Willow to start negotiating the details of the Snugglebunny Scale, even though she and Spike were already off-the-charts, because she suspected this was the closest she and Willow were going to get to actually talking about things any time soon, and it was better than no girl-talk at all. And once they had hammered out a nice one-to-ten scale (on which Buffy determined she and Spike totally went to eleven), Willow shyly admitted that she had made it to a THREE that very afternoon, and Buffy smiled and hugged her and was suitably impressed, and definitely did not bring up the eleven.

Best friends didn’t rub that sort of thing in.

\---

Spike watched Buffy all the way back to the couch, the way her hips twitched under her short skirt with the zipper up the back, and her hair flowing over her for-all-intents-and-purposes-bare back crossed with flimsy strings, and the loose zippered boots she had slipped over the blinking anklet, and since he knew for a bloody fact that she wasn’t wearing any underwear under the skirt – she had given him an evil, evil glance when getting dressed to let him know that was not an accident – that made her three zippers and one perky string bow away from being completely naked again, which he estimated would take about thirty seconds once they were finally in a place private enough for Her Ladyship. Ten seconds if he left the boots on, which was basically a no-brainer win-win situation, because two fewer zippers, and boots. Three if he didn’t even bother with any of the fastenings and just got her up against the nearest flat surface and shoved up her barely-there halter top to get to her perfect breasts and shoved up her skirt to her waist and drove right in to her sweet hot quim, though freeing his cock would require one zipper and a button, so five more seconds there, and…

“Spike, it’s your shot!” Anya said impatiently. “Stop imagining having sex with Buffy.” Spike was startled into a little laugh by that, wondering for a moment if Anya was actually reading his mind, but when he looked at her, her face was clear of any sort of special knowledge, just clearly eager to get on with the pool game. She gestured with her pool cue to the table. “You can think about orgasms when it’s not your turn.”

Spike eyed the table with disgust. Xander’s little run as a supple-wristed Pool Wizard had left him with three balls and Anya with two, while Xander still had all five. (He suspected part of Anya’s impatience was frustration that her boyfriend had not gone easy on her, from the sidelong no-sex-for-you glances she was giving him.) Xander was drinking his Coke and carefully not looking at Spike, which clearly meant that the best strategy for Spike was to get right up in Xander’s line of sight, but in a not-reminding-him-of-the-Buffy-situation way, in case he went all Rain-Man-billiards-savant again.

Spike stalked around the entire table, ostensibly looking for the best angle for his next shot but mostly trying to be incredibly irritating. Which he knew was one of his stronger talents, carefully honed over the years. He was a fucking GENIUS at being annoying.

“You have an excellent shot for Xander’s five-ball,” Anya volunteered helpfully.

“I do indeed,” Spike said in a friendly, grateful tone of voice. “Thank you, darling.” He leaned over and sank it with a brisk, deliberately careless shot.

Xander glared at him then. “Hey. You don’t get to talk to her, Chips Ahoy.”

Anya smiled beatifically. “Are you being jealous? Because I like it.”

Spike theatrically chalked the end of his cue, scanning the table again. He had an excellent setup for Anya’s eleven, but he suspected that it would be a poor strategic choice overall, and tried for Xander’s three instead. It was a close call, but he managed to edge it into a side pocket. Unfortunately, that left him with chuff-all for a next shot, unless he cut his own throat by sinking his own seven, and after a quick assessment of where that might leave him, he blew his next shot on a failed Hail-Mary for Xander’s two-ball. Anya beamed at him when he gave her a nod, and stepped up to the table for her turn.

Spike casually wandered over to Xander, lighting a cigarette on his way. “Hard to play pool if I can’t talk to my opponents,” he said offhandedly.

Xander’s eyes were pure venom. “It’s bad enough that Buffy is letting you mack on her tonight – and I can’t say I understand why, because I’d think life imprisonment in a gulag would be less of a punishment than having to put up with you for more than five seconds – but you definitely don’t get to flirt with my girlfriend.” Anya gave a pleased little wriggle at hearing that, sending Xander a flirtatious look over her shoulder as she took aim at his two.

“Not flirting,” Spike said with a grin. “I’m a happily married man, I am.”

Xander sighed. “You know I hate you, right?” There was the crack of balls striking each other from the table, and Anya squealed in success.

“Would be disappointed if you didn’t,” Spike replied cheerfully. “Any road, all that really matters in this lovely scenario is what Buffy thinks.” He looked over at where Buffy and Willow were giggling on the couch, shifting a bit to the left and tilting his head so he could see between police officers. She was glowing. “And she doesn’t hate me.” That last bit came out a lot less smirking-and-irritating than he had planned, more hushed-and-reverent, as if he couldn’t quite believe it himself. Which, well, he couldn’t. He had planned on saying something else obnoxious, to keep Xander all riled up and in the moment, but watching Buffy made him forget what it was, and also made him not care about annoying Xander or winning their game of Cut-throat, because her smile was brilliant and she was brilliant and when she was done with the Bronze he was going to take her someplace fine and private and unzip all her zippers and his one zipper and it was going to be fucking brilliant. Also brilliant fucking.

He could feel Xander watching him, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Buffy’s flashing teeth and eyes. She was like a bloody bug-zapper for vamps, or maybe just for him, a Spike-zapper, irresistibly attractive and blazingly deadly, inexorably drawing him in to his doom.

Anya sulked over to them a moment later, pouting up at Xander. “I tried to get Spike’s nine-ball, but bank shots just don’t work for me without you smooshing your penis up against my butt. You’d think I would do better without the distraction, but it turns out I actually find it very soothing.”

Spike took a drag off his cigarette, eyeing Xander sidelong. There, that was auspicious. Embarrassed-yet-horny Xander was a much worse pool player than out-of-body-from-trauma Xander. If this kept up, the next round of drinks was as good as won.

Then Anya turned to him and said, “So, Spike, how is the sex with Buffy going?” and Xander’s eyes turned cavernous and faraway, and Spike sighed and hoped Buffy had enough cash on her to cover another round of sodas for the Scoobies and a double Johnny Walker Black for him, because he was broke, and anyways if you thought about it hard enough from exactly the right angle it was entirely her fault Xander kept entering a mystical trance state in which he magically understood physics and complex geometry.

He smiled charmingly at Anya. “Very well, thank you. Though I fear if you want details, you will have to ask the lady in question. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.” Fuck it, if he was going to lose the pool game anyhow, and he was going to have to wait to free Buffy from the burden of too many zippers, in the meantime he might as well get his jollies by inflicting maximum psychological trauma. Xander was practically glowing now, as he walked zombie-like over to the table and lined up his next shot. “Tell me, love, do you have any recommendations for a good gift for Buffy? Something… adult. Perhaps requiring batteries.” With a double crack, Spike’s nine and seven vanished into different pockets, Xander’s back quivering as he drifted like a ghost around the table to line up another shot. Anya beamed at Spike and launched into a flurry of suggestions which were Very Enlightening Indeed. Xander was a lucky, lucky bloke.

Not as lucky as Spike, but pretty damn lucky.

\---

When the girl-talk petered out, Buffy talked Willow into heading out on the dance floor, which got rid of the awkwardness of having to talk when they had already agreed not to talk about anything important, and was also Buffy’s favorite thing to do at the Bronze, and also gave Buffy a better view of Spike racking balls at the pool table. He did it with a sharp efficiency that spoke of long practice and possibly a little bit of temper, and when he gave Xander a courtly, pissed-off bow and stepped aside for him to break, she guessed it was because he’d lost that last game and she would probably have to shell out for a round of drinks now, because she knew he didn’t have any money on him. He met her gaze as he pulled out his flask for a swig, and she grinned and did her sexiest dance move, a sensual body roll that felt extra-sensual without any underwear on, and his eyes flared in a gratifying way.

The dance floor at the Bronze was, oddly enough, one of the more polite dancing venues she’d been to – some of the bars on campus were overloaded with full-of-themselves jerks who thought an awesome way to pick up a girl they’d never met was to come grinding up behind her while she was dancing without even a how-do-you-do. But here at the Bronze, she could dance with Willow, sharing best-friend grins and laughing, without ever worrying about somebody’s pelvis popping up in her space unasked-for, and yet there were still plenty of willing victims when a girl was in the mood for a little company, good little extras in Buffy’s very own show.

She was still sore, beautifully sore, and dancing made her hyper-aware of every tender spot, brought the memories of just how she had earned each delectable twinge to the forefront of her mind. She watched Spike through her lashes as he bent over the pool table and grinned at Anya and tormented Xander. He played pool like he did everything else, watching like a hawk and assessing the situation, the gears in his head visibly turning as he planned his no-doubt cunning strategy – and then leaning in with an impatient twitch of his shoulders and taking his shot with barely any setup, swift and decisive and flashy, with predictably mixed results. After each shot, he would turn and his eyes would seek her out, and she would think about something extra-naughty each time their eyes met, and he would look back, eyes burning as if he knew exactly which naughty thought she had chosen, and then she would turn back to Willow and he would turn back to his game and she would remember his wager that he could bring her off in front of everyone without anyone knowing a thing, and she knew now that he was totally right, that he totally could do that, because she was already more than halfway there and that was just from LOOKING.

After a while the pool game ended, and Spike started to circle the dance floor, like a shark, and she responded by looking anywhere but at him and amping up the sex quotient of her dancing, telling him with her body just what she was thinking of, and when the music changed to a slow song, a haunting, bluesy bit from one of the Bronze’s regular bands, she wasn’t surprised to feel him coming up behind her, hands on her hips. He leaned in to set his cheek alongside hers, but stayed separate, only his hands, firm but trembling, and his cool cheek touching hers as they moved together.

She turned to face him, and he let his hands glide around her waist as she turned, still maintaining just that barest contact, and he pressed his forehead to her temple, eyes closed, and it physically hurt, to be so close and yet hardly touching, and she laughed quietly.

“So, love,” Spike began, quiet but conversational. “We’ve done the girl talk and the pool and the drinks and now the dancing. What else did we have planned for this evening?”

She could feel her breath catching, and her stomach muscles tightened in anticipation. “I believe there was talk of a bet.”

Spike smiled, eyes still closed. “Ah, yes.” They swayed for a moment more, anticipation curling between them like smoke. “Are the Scoobies watching?”

Buffy looked lazily over his shoulder. Xander and Anya were dancing a few feet away, Anya holding Xander’s head to her shoulder and patting his back comfortingly. Willow was by herself, but nearby, swaying aimlessly, a faraway look on her face. “Close enough. Unless you wanted to make an announcement.”

Spike’s fingers tightened on her hips. “And the police?”

It was dim, but Buffy could see the telltale silhouette of police caps interspersed around the edges of the dance floor, lights reflecting off the silver badges here and there. “They’re watching too.”

“Good.” Spike opened his eyes then, looking down at her, eyes dark and unfathomable. “Put your arms around my neck.”

Buffy did, sliding her hands up his chest along the way.

“Now close your eyes.”

She closed them, feeling herself start to pant and pressing her forehead into the crook of his neck to hide her red face.

Spike caught the edge of his duster with one hand, sliding it around until it enveloped one hip, the trailing edge flapping against her calf, his hand pinning the leather at the small of her back. They started to turn, slowly, and Spike leaned in and started to speak, little tidbits of memories from that afternoon, and she pressed closer, pressed her cheek up against the cotton of his shirt, the dance floor lights flashing over her closed eyelids, and she didn’t know which way they were facing, but just when she was tempted to open her eyes and see if anyone was watching, he tucked his head down and whispered into the crown of her head, “Mustn’t let anyone see.” And then his hand glided down between them and tucked the loose fabric of her skirt right up against her and his clever fingers found the best spot right away and stroked once, twice, again, and she came so hard she saw stars behind her closed eyelids, clutching desperately at Spike’s leather collar, and he chuckled, chest shaking under her and slid his hand back to her hip and she opened her eyes and everything was just the same, Anya comforting Xander and Willow off in imaginary land and countless faceless extras getting their Friday night groove on and a clueless cadre of police chaperones watching them for the first sign of lawbreaking, except nothing at all was the same, it was like looking out after a rainstorm and seeing everything clear and bright and new, and she swallowed, her mouth suddenly completely dry, and lifted her head to look at Spike, and he was looking down at her with a mixture of exhilaration and terror and smugness that was just so SPIKE that she smiled brilliantly and slid one hand around to his cheek, catching at his cheekbone with her thumb. He closed his own eyes then, leaning into her caress, and they kept on swaying like that until the song ended, and kept on swaying a little bit after, even though the next song was boppy up-tempo rock, until Anya popped up next to them, face expectant, and Spike glanced over at her and sighed.

Buffy wished Anya would go away, but she was Xander’s girlfriend, and she was growing to like her despite – or maybe because of – her bluntness, and she also thought it might be wise to set a welcoming precedent in the social group for possibly-hard-to-accept significant others, so she smiled neutrally and said, “Did you need something, Anya?”

“Well, Spike lost two games of pool, and now that we’ve all gotten to dance with our sweethearts, he’s supposed to be buying us all drinks. Oh, and an onion blossom. I don’t know what that is, but I am eager to try it. He spoke very highly of it.”

Buffy gave Spike a shrewd look. “Just how much cash are we committed to spending, SWEETHEART?”

Spike looked off at the bar. “I’ll pay you back later,” he muttered. “Got a lead on some income. Nothing illegal or evil. Just… paid work.” He looked a bit ashamed, which was a look Buffy was definitely not used to, but she supposed the idea of working for a living, or… not a living, because he wasn’t living, but… what would you call it? Whatever it was, it was a big step down. She sighed and went back to the sofa where she had left her clutch, Anya and Spike trailing behind her. Another nice thing about the Bronze, she could leave her purse just about anywhere and still expect her money to be there when she got back. Especially tonight, with half the SPD training their eagle eyes on the crowd. Though the crowd was a lot thinner now, possibly because a heavy police presence implied either a high risk of mayhem – townies were largely oblivious, of course, but natural selection tended to leave behind people with sharper instincts – or special alcohol enforcement; the bartender was definitely glaring at the cops, not appreciating the reduced business.

Willow and Xander were already sitting on the other couch, Willow patting Xander’s hand and speaking to him softly. They both looked up as Buffy approached, Willow’s face wry and amused, Xander vaguely terrified, as if he expected Buffy to turn into a giant insect or something. Which, she realized, was a very real danger Xander frequently had to face. No wonder he had been so relieved to start dating Anya; at least she didn’t hide her ex-demon nature and wasn’t actively trying to kill him and, well, wasn’t Cordelia, because even the kinder, gentler Cordelia was a scary, scary thing. Whatever Willow had been saying to him, though, it was obviously doing him some good, because Xander managed to greet her and Anya and Spike without any death-glares or eyes-that-had-looked-into-the-abyss, just normal goofball Xander. Willow ceded her spot to Anya – a bit grudgingly, because she obviously still wasn’t too fond of the ex-demon – and moved to a chair across from it, leaving the other comfy couch for Buffy and Spike.

Buffy dug her cash out and handed it to Spike with a glare – not a harsh one, because Spike was definitely in her good books after their dance, but a behave-yourself admonition. “Bring me back my change, okay? This is all I have until I hit up Mom for more.”

Spike gave her a cheeky grin, shame long gone, or at least well hidden. “Yeah. Settling wagers is always important, isn’t it? Thanks for not making me a welsher.” He swaggered off towards the bar, whistling something that clashed with the dance music terribly.

Buffy sank into the couch, reaching down to massage her ankle. Hiding the anklet under her boot kept her from looking like a dangerous parolee, but it did chafe a bit when she was dancing, even with thick socks. “So, I hear Xander cleaned up at pool.”

“So I also hear,” Xander replied. “I, uh, don’t actually remember too much. It’s like I was in the zone, my natural pool-playing genius rising to the occasion.” He cast Buffy a sidelong glance. “Would be much more satisfying if you weren’t the one paying for Spike’s crushing loss.”

Buffy shrugged. “My responsibility, my expense. Or Mom’s expense, since she’s the one actually paying for everything.” She smiled, remembering Spike and her mom awkwardly chatting on the couch, way back on the occasion of their very first truce. “I think Mom kind of likes Spike, actually.”

Xander looked darkly off towards the bar. “Guess that makes one of us.” He shrugged, glancing at Willow. “I guess it’s between you and him, though. Do me a favor and make him work it off, though.”

Buffy wished she had her drink, so she could blame her little choke on a Diet-Coke-sip gone wrong. “Don’t worry, Xander. I’ll take care of it.”

Spike returned then, handing Buffy a wad of bills and change. “Waitress’ll be by in a moment with the drinks. Take a few minutes more for the onion blossom and the wings.” He jauntily slung himself onto the couch next to Buffy, laying his arm out across the back.

Buffy gave him a Look. “Wings?”

He shrugged. “Feeling peckish. Buffalo sauce here is excellent.” He looked at her with a knowing smile. “Buffalo wings come with celery stalks on the side if you feel like being virtuous, pet.”

“’The celery stalks at midnight…’” Xander said randomly. Willow laughed. Buffy and Anya and Spike all looked at each other in confusion.

Willow waved her hand at them. “Sorry guys, elementary school thing. It’s from one of my favorite book series. Xander used to read them to me on Halloween before we went trick-or-treating.” At the continued blank looks, Willow rolled her eyes. “Okay, Anya and Spike I understand, but seriously, Buffy? You never read Bunnicula?”

Anya let out a little shriek. “That sounds horrible!”

“No, it’s really cute, it’s about a vampire bunny, and…”

Anya moaned and buried her face in Xander’s shoulder. He patted her back soothingly. “Sorry guys, Anya’s, uh, got a THING about bunnies.”

“You keep saying it, Xander! Stop talking about them!” Anya’s voice was muffled by Xander’s shirt.

Buffy exchanged a mystified look with Willow. “She doesn’t have a problem with vampires, or demons, or steaming entrails, but she’s scared of cute fluffy bunnies?”

Anya lifted her head just enough to glare at her. “Can we stop saying the B word, please?” Xander’s puppy-dog eyes pleaded with them over the top of Anya’s head, and Buffy shared another look with Willow, and shrugged.

“Sure, no problem. We all have our little quirks.” The waitress arrived then with their drinks, and the process of handing cups around cleared up a tiny bit of the awkwardness; Anya sat up a bit, though she scooched as close to Xander as she could, and they all took big sips that conveniently made it impossible to talk. Big, savoring sips, that apparently required a great deal of consideration after the fact, judging by the silence – well, not silence, Buffy thought, because there was loud music, and crowd noise, and occasionally a squawk from a policeman’s radio, but it was amazing how the lack-of-people-talking made that all seem unimportant – that reigned for several minutes. The onion blossom and wings arrived in the midst of all the not-talking, providing yet another excuse not to talk as they dug in.

“So, Buffy,” Anya finally said, voice matter-of-fact. “Spike says you’re the one I need to talk to about the sex you two are having.”

Buffy almost choked on her fried onion, quickly taking a drink to clear it up. “Spike said we’re having sex?” She rounded on him, eyes wide with outrage, because they had DEFINITELY talked about not talking about that.

“Oh, no, he didn’t actually say anything. I just assumed you’re having sex, because you’re fake-married, and that’s what married people do. But when I asked him about it, he said I should talk to you.” Anya looked at her interestedly, as if she were asking about Buffy’s flower-arranging hobby. “So, tell me about it.”

Buffy could feel her mouth moving, but no sounds were coming out. Spike edged slightly away from her, studiously nibbling on a Buffalo wing.

Of all people, Xander was the one to save her, putting his hand on Anya’s knee. “Sweetie, I think Buffy prefers to keep her private life private.” He glared at Spike, looking like he wanted to say something more, but a quelling look from Willow silenced him.

Anya looked disappointed. “Oh. That sucks. I have all sorts of questions about vampire sex, and it’s not like I’m going to get the chance to do direct research.” She looked up at Xander, eyes big and adoring. “I’m not afraid of vampires, but I don’t want you to become one, okay? Not even if it means increased stamina and faster recovery time.” Willow laughed a little, and Anya looked at her confidingly. “That’s what I’ve heard. I just wanted Buffy to confirm.”

Xander looked down at her, face jumbling through a lot of emotions before finally settling on something between disturbed and glad. “Um, okay. I’ll work on that. The not-becoming-a-vampire.”

Anya hugged him tightly, arms around his waist. “Your stamina and recovery time are great, honey.”

“Okay, thanks.” Xander rubbed his hands together, desperate for a change of subject. “So! Any word on our commando buddies, Buffster?”

Buffy nodded eagerly, just as glad for a subject change. “Spike identified one of the commandoes and their leader for me. A professor and her TA at the university.” She looked at Spike, who was licking Buffalo sauce off his fingers; he smiled at her, taking an extra-lascivious lick of sauce with his wicked, wicked tongue. “I was thinking maybe we should do a little recon at Lowell House, see if any of the other frat-boys are involved. Maybe they have a secret entrance…”

Willow interrupted. “Geez, Buffy, weren’t you listening earlier?” Buffy looked at her in confusion, and Willow rolled her eyes. “Of course you weren’t listening, you had to go tell Spike something ‘important’ and you didn’t let me finish.” She leaned in, eyes big. “Lowell House is GONE.”

“Wait, what? How can a whole house be gone? It’s a HOUSE. They don’t generally go places.” Buffy looked at Spike, who was suddenly tense and watchful.

“It burned down!” Willow bounced a bit on the edge of her seat cushion.

“You’re kidding!” Willow shook her head solemnly. “You’re not kidding? Lowell House really burned down? Like down-to-the-ground down?” Buffy looked at Spike, eyes narrow with thought. Maybe there was some sort of access or evidence in the rubble, or down in the basement…

“Yeah, my, um, friend said that the Fire Department was fighting it all morning, but they couldn’t do anything to save it, it went up like that time Xander’s dad was barbecuing, you know, with the excessive lighter fluid? They said that there weren’t any casualties, that all the guys got out in time, no injuries or deaths or anything, but they just couldn’t save the house. And then they got right in there with bulldozers this afternoon and leveled the wreckage, and then they filled in the basement with cement for good measure. It’s totally gone.”

Buffy and Spike looked at each other in dismay. “Wow,” Buffy said finally. “That’s, um… wow.”

Spike ran a hand across the back of his head, wincing. “Fuck.” He flopped back against the couch cushions. “Was hoping… Well. Was hoping.” He gave Buffy an anguished sidelong look, one that said he recognized the dilemma, that he couldn’t get his chip out and still have Buffy, but that he was still secretly hoping for some way to get everything he wanted. Or maybe just to watch Buffy beat up some commandoes in his honor. Something.

Buffy patted his knee reassuringly. “We can still go check it out. Maybe we’ll find something they missed.” She looked around them, at the sea of blue uniforms that had flooded the Bronze. “We’ll have to ditch our buddies-in-blue, though, or they’ll probably find a way to hang the arson on us.” She gave Xander a significant look. “Think you can make some noise for us, Xander?”

Xander nodded, and started talking loudly about the merits of some movie or other. Willow glanced at Buffy and started to argue, just as loud. Anya obviously didn’t know what was going on, but she was a woman of Strong Opinions, so she joined in the argument just on principle. And Buffy snuggled up to Spike, and nuzzled his ear, and whispered her plan. He kissed her on the cheek and whispered back agreement. Then they snuggled a bit more, just because.

And then they joined in the argument, and helped finish up the onion blossom and the wings, because by gosh Buffy’s Mom was paying for the feast, and they were going to get their share. Buffy had to agree with Spike: the onion thing was BRILLIANT.

They got another one to go.

\---

Once they had their foam to-go-box in hand, Buffy and Spike excused themselves from the gathering, suggesting quietly that they meet the next night at Giles’s place for a Scooby Meeting, and headed hand-in-hand to the back door that led out to the alley. Out in the alley, Buffy looked around for a place to set the onion blossom and her clutch, but there really wasn’t any place except the dumpster, which was too gross to even consider, so she held them off to the side with one hand and leaned up against the wall.

Spike sauntered up to her, looking downwards. (THAT THING! Buffy sighed internally.) “Didn’t peg you for a romantic, love,” he said quietly, a small smile on his face.

“Shows what you know,” Buffy grinned challengingly. “I’m super romantic.”

Spike traced his finger in patterns on her stomach. “That what you call it, love? When you fling me about and have your wicked way with me?”

Buffy pouted up at him “I thought you liked the flinging about.” She traced a quick hand up the length of his cock, glancing around to make sure they were still alone. “This part of you seemed to like it.”

“Didn’t say I didn’t like it.” Spike grinned at her wickedly. “Just not sure that qualifies as ‘romantic.’ Hot, gorgeous, and bloody fantastic, yeah. Romantic? Not so much.”

“So what’s so romantic about this alley,” Buffy said curiously, looking around.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.” Spike took her hand and placed a fluttering kiss on her wrist. “This alley, my love, is where we first met.”

Buffy quirked an eyebrow at him. “You mean when you threatened to kill me? Yeah, there’s a romantic memory right there.”

Spike leaned in close. “I watched you fight from the shadows right over there. You were bloody gorgeous. It’s a good memory for me.”

“I mostly remember the part that came after. You know, when Mom and I kicked your ass at the school.” Buffy smiled cheerily. “You’re right, that is a good memory.”

“You see? Romantic, just thinking about how far we’ve come.” He leaned in to brush his lips against her ear. “We have company. Two heartbeats, one just inside the door, seems like they’re just standing guard. The other coming down the alley.”

“Then kiss me. But just kisses. We don’t want to give them an excuse to haul us in.”

Spike didn’t answer, just put his hands on either side of her waist, palms flat against the wall, and kissed her sweetly on the lips. She wove her free hand up through his hair and kissed back, careful to keep the heat low even as she wished for more. But they had an audience, and not a friendly one, and so she kept it sweet and light, tender and romantic. Though she did kick a foot up against the wall so her thigh was lightly brushing his crotch, because she had Plans for that later.

Footsteps approached, and a flashlight swept over them. “Excuse me,” came an authoritative voice.

Buffy broke the kiss in what she hoped was a convincing show of shock. “Oh my goodness!” she gasped.

Spike stepped back, looking like a man who had just had his seduction interrupted. Which, of course, he was, so no acting required. “Is there a problem, Officer?”

The policeman – a new one this time – played his flashlight over the scene. “We had a tip that there was, uh, a drug deal happening in the alley.” The flashlight lingered on the foam container in Buffy’s hand.

“No drugs here, sir,” Buffy said sweetly. She opened the container. “Just snacks.”

The officer clenched his jaw, obviously upset that he had moved too soon, before the targets had gotten to the lawbreaking. “We’re watching you,” he said finally.

“Oh, gross!” Buffy said, wrinkling her nose. “You’re watching us kiss? That’s icky.”

Spike folded his arms. “Is it against the law for me to kiss my wife?”

With narrow eyes, the officer grudgingly conceded that it was not.

“Well then,” Spike said politely. “Might we get back to it? This is something of an anniversary for us, you see.” He looked adoringly at Buffy. “Very romantic.” Buffy gazed meltingly back. They were really getting good at this pretending-to-be-in-love-with-each-other.

To his credit, the officer looked embarrassed. “Sorry for the intrusion.” He gave them a warning glare. “But keep it clean, or I’m bringing you in.”

Spike nodded affably. “Of course, sir. We’ll be the very spirit of discretion.” He waited pointedly for the officer to leave.

Once the policeman was out of sight, he bent down and kissed Buffy again. “Very convincing innocent act, love.”

“I wasn’t acting,” Buffy whispered back. “I do think it’s gross for them to watch us kiss.”

Spike smiled against her lips. “He’s at the mouth of the alley now. Line of sight blocked by the dumpster. Getting on his radio for further orders.” He tilted his head over to kiss the side of her throat. “Shall we?”

Buffy handed him their takeout and her purse and bent down to easily lift up the manhole cover at their feet. “After you, husband of mine.”

Spike grinned and headed down the ladder; Buffy quickly followed him, quietly sliding the manhole cover into place above them, then dusting off her hands. It was really dark down there, without any sunlight to filter through; Spike lit a cigarette and it was like his face, faintly glowing red, was the only thing that existed in the whole world. He looked at her above the glowing cherry, then sighed on an exhale of smoke. “Fuck. Hard not to do you right here. Like Pavlov’s dog. Sewers just make me salivate at the thought of getting you naked.”

Buffy reached out silently, fumbling for his hand. “Yeah, me too,” she admitted quietly. “But they’ll figure it out pretty soon. We need to move fast if we want to have time to sift through the rubble before they catch up to us.” She squeezed his hand once she found it. “I didn’t bring my flashlight.”

Spike squeezed back. “Won’t let you fall, love,” he said roughly.

“I know,” she said with a smile, wondering if he could see it. His lips brushed her cheek, and she stopped wondering. “Let’s get this over with,” she said briskly. “This is supposed to be our night off.”

They started off down the pitch-black tunnel as fast as they could go, hand in hand.

\---

The sewer exit nearest to Lowell House was just off the quad, which was quiet and peaceful due to the holiday. Buffy munched on the last bit of the onion blossom and tossed the container in the trash as they jogged across the grassy lawn to the gaping space where Lowell House used to be. The trees that had shaded the old building were gone too, freshly-sawn stumps the only reminder. Buffy stood on one of the stumps and looked down at the featureless expanse of grey concrete that entirely filled in the huge square foundation. Well, not featureless; the edges of the smooth, still-wet concrete had been roughened up by students hoping to leave their mark, roughly scrawled names and footprints and handprints and what looked suspiciously like a buttprint scattered along the border. Right below Buffy’s feet, someone had written “Lowell House sucks!” in huge letters; just off to the left was a tiny, shy “T.M. + W.R.” and a bit further down, what looked like a haiku commemorating the demolished oak.

Spike stalked all the way around the perimeter of the concrete, face black as he came back to Buffy’s position. “Nothing, love,” he spit out, furious. “Not a bloody clue.” He stood right in front of Buffy; she looked down at him, feeling very very tall.

“This isn’t our only lead,” she said bracingly. “I’m sure there’s another way down into that stupid place. And at least Walsh and Riley are gone, hopefully for good. Saves me the trouble of confronting them.” Spike looked up at her sardonically. “What? Nobody tazers and drugs and experiments on my vampire, in my town, on my watch.” She traced a ring of the tree trunk with her foot. “I was just going to wait until final grades were in. I think I had an A going. I wonder what the new professor is going to be like…”

Spike took her by the waist and hoisted her down. “YOUR vampire?”

“Well, aren’t you?” Buffy looked at him steadily.

Spike looked away. “Well, yeah,” he admitted grudgingly. He looked at the drying concrete slab again. “Let me do one more circuit, just to be sure. Then we can head back to Watcher’s, check in.” He glared at her. “And by ‘check in,’ I mean wait until Giles is all passed out in his beddy-bye, lock ourselves away, and fuck. Been watching you in that getup all night. I’m about to explode.”

Buffy smiled shyly. “Me too.”

He looked at her for a long moment, eyes unreadable, then whirled and started his circuit of the foundation. On the far side, he stopped and bent down, poking at the concrete.

“Find something?” Buffy called out, starting to walk around the edge towards him.

Spike shook his head. “Nothing important. Stay there.” After a moment longer, he stood and continued on his way, whistling.

When he reached her again, Buffy turned and started walking in the direction of Giles’s place; Spike fell in beside her, singing quietly, that stupid punk song he always used to get her pissed off, the one about being sedated and getting to the show in a wheelchair. (Ironic much?) She decided to ignore him this time. Or at least ignore the singing, she amended, slipping her hand into his. Ignoring the entirety of Spike was just not possible.

When they heard faint sirens in the distance, they grinned at each other and broke into a run.

 

End Chapter 11

 

Chapter 11 Author’s Notes

Plotty chapter is plotty. But it’s not like Spuffy can have sex ALL the time! Think of Buffy’s poor overworked ladyparts. She’s not a rabbit! She needs some rest!

Shoutout to my high school friend Alyssa, with whom the original Snugglebunny Scale was created one silly night in the (reveals ancientness) late 1980s. It had to be hastily revised in the ensuing months to account for all sorts of Snugglebunny Snuggling that had been unthinkable when we first created it. (Tragically, Alyssa was the one racking up all the high numbers, not I.) Our final version went from 1 (Innocent Snugglebunnies) to 8 (Imaginative Snugglebunnies). The Buffy/Willow version breaks out 8 into three detailed levels, because they have access to chains, but is otherwise the same. Additional shoutout to Berkeley Breathed, whose Bloom County comic inspired us with the term Serious Snugglebunnies.

Spike and Buffy go to eleven (Superhero Snugglebunnies) because, duh, of course they do. If you have no idea what this means, go watch this clip and educate yourself:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4xgx4k83zzc

Spike and Buffy dance to “Key” by Devics, the super-sexy song Spike and Dru dance to in “Crush.”

Gratuitous quotes, near-quotes, or references to: “Pinball Wizard” by the Who, “The Man Who Couldn’t Cry” by Johnny Cash, This Is Spinal Tap (see above clip), “Bunnicula” and its sequel “The Celery Stalks at Midnight”

Gratuitous quote in the Author’s Notes (not that I’m getting all meta here or anything) from “I’m Tired,” performed by the incomparable Madeline Kahn in Blazing Saddles. Spotify only has karaoke backing tracks for this, but you can see it here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uai7M4RpoLU


	12. Fictionalization

It was exhilarating, the wind in their faces as they ran from the ruins of Lowell House, but when they finally made it off campus and shifted their course towards Restfield Cemetery, Spike and Buffy gradually slowed down to a jog, and finally a walk, fairly brisk and purposeful but somehow still slow enough that Spike could revel in the awareness of Buffy’s warm hand in his, a little sweaty from exertion, fingers twined firmly with his own, and he was having the devil of a time keeping his face from sliding off into a goofy, very-un-Big-Bad-like grin, because here he was walking hand in hand with his girl, on a romantic evening stroll that promised to involve plenty of violence and a chaser of uninhibited sex, and, well, fuck it, he let himself grin after all, because after his weeks-long fall into a pit of despair, he had sure as hell landed on his feet.

But he made sure he had a good grasp of Buffy’s hand as they walked along, because he was terrified she was going to let go.

He knew it was fucking ridiculous, after everything that had happened in the past few days, but at the same time he couldn’t help but be overwhelmed with uncertainty, because while Buffy had obviously decided sex-with-Spike was a good thing, there was something about holding hands that was MORE, more than sex and more than kisses and more than orgasms, and he knew deep inside that if she let go of him, he wouldn’t know how to get her to hold his hand again; every time she had slipped her hand into his, it had been like a miracle, manna from heaven, not the sort of thing a depraved monster like him could possibly hope to bring about through his own actions.

Something had shifted between them today, something momentous, like an earthquake, changing the landscape of their arch-enemies-with-benefits relationship into a whole new topography, a new country that was beautiful but terrible, savage and uncertain, riddled with pitfalls and quicksand and cliffs, and he loved it, loved the way his adrenaline spiked each time she looked at him, not knowing if this was the moment her mercurial mood would shift and she would try to kill him again, but it was infuriating at the same time, because he was having trouble keeping up with where the hell they were in this brave new land of the lost, and it reminded him of that day, the day he had been turned, but not the blissful part, not Drusilla and the mews and gratefully closing his eyes on humanity – no, it was the part earlier, the shameful part, sitting on a hard parlor couch and offering up his poems and his heart and his life, and the pitying, cold look in Cecily’s eyes as she deemed them all unworthy. Drusilla had saved him from the tortuous, tangled webs of society, wiped away the fog and confusion and pared him down to his essence, given him HIMSELF as a gift, and things had been uncomplicated for more than a century. Loving Drusilla had been simple – not always happy, but simple.

Loving Buffy was insanely complicated. (Which was fucking hilarious, given that she was the one who was supposed to be sane.) And while he was sure as fuck not turning back now – as if he could! – every so often he felt like he was right back on that settee, all wrapped up in the straitjackets of Society, just waiting to have his heart broken.

They had made it to the gates of Restfield while he had been lost in thought and clinging to Buffy’s hand like a lifeline, and Buffy tugged him off to the left, to the little white shed that served as the groundskeepers’ office, currently dark and empty. Just outside the door a clipboard hung on a nail, a few bedraggled sheets of paper riffling in the wind. Buffy leafed through the pages with her free hand; Spike took the opportunity to lean in close and press a soft kiss to the side of her neck, relieved when she sighed and tilted her head to give him better access.

“So what’s this, love?” he murmured, stepping to face her and sliding his lips along her jaw. He tucked his free hand under the hem of her skirt, slowly tracing the crease of her thigh inwards from her hip with his knuckle. He pressed their clasped hands tightly against her other hip.

“Burial schedule,” Buffy gasped, dropping her head back, eyes closed. “So I can check all the new graves.” She shifted her hips to the side to encourage his knuckle towards her center.

Spike teased lightly at her damp curls, kissing along the column of her throat. “Staff here know you’re the slayer?” he asked quietly, surprised.

“No,” Buffy whispered, pressing her hips forward; he obliged her by uncurling his fingers and dragging all four of them in a long stroke through her naked wetness. Ah, that was a glorious sound, that whimper. He stroked again, more slowly; her forehead fell against his shoulder as she visibly struggled to regain her train of thought. “They don’t know who I am,” she managed to gasp out. “But they know something’s up. We don’t – oh, God! – talk, but they put out the schedule, and I keep them safe.”

“Mmmm.” Spike allowed himself another delicious stroke, another sweet sip at her throat, then reluctantly drew his hand away and stepped back. “Guess you’d better get to it, then,” he said in resignation. “Sooner you take out the New Vamps on the Block, sooner we can get back to defiling Giles’s spare bedroom.” He heaved a sigh, looking at her face guardedly.

Buffy sighed too, opening her eyes and glaring at him. “Since when are you the voice of Sacred Duty?” she muttered poutily.

Spike squeezed her hand. “Since the police started following us around, love. Do you right here, but I seem to recall someone prefers not getting thrown in jail.”

Buffy huffed her bangs out of her face. “Oh, yeah.” She shook her head fiercely and flipped up the top page on the clipboard again, determinedly businesslike. “Okay then. Looks like two possibilities. One up by the north wall, the other right near the woods. Also should swing by the Mondragon crypt, it seems to be the happening place for trendy demons these days.”

“North first?” Spike said briskly, walking backwards and tugging Buffy along with him.

Buffy frowned judiciously. “Mondragon crypt first. Then north, then woods.” She grinned with a hint of malice. “That seems the most frustrating for our watchdogs, wouldn’t you say?”

Spike returned her grin. “If you say so,” he agreed, changing course slightly. “You just point me where you need me.”

“Where I need you?” Buffy bit her lip, eyes gleaming in the moonlight as she hesitated. Then she smiled wickedly and pointed decisively at her curving lips. “First of all, I need you here.”

He obligingly leaned in for a kiss, brief but tender, then pressed his lips to her forehead, whispering his love soundlessly against her smooth skin. He inhaled deeply, the unique scent of Buffy, shampoo and sweat and the vaguest hint of death, then stepped back, grinning again. “Now, point me at what you want me to kill.”

Buffy laughed and pointed over his shoulder, and they broke into a jog together.

Spike didn’t let go of her hand.

\---

The Mondragon crypt was indeed a hotbed of Friday-night demonic partying – they even had a mirror-ball, faintly reflecting twinkles of candlelight from the ubiquitous candelabras in the crypt’s corners. Buffy would have felt bad for breaking up the shindig, were it not for the terrified couple bound atop the sarcophagus, waiting for midnight or 11:11 or whatever time was supposed to be right for the sacrifice. Buffy couldn’t help but roll her eyes as she dropped Spike’s hand and dug her knives out of her boots (the only place she could hide weapons in her own party outfit), because nothing was guaranteed to harsh her holiday mellow like the endless demonic rituals and sacrifices that inevitably cropped up around the Winter Solstice. Spike leaped into battle beside her with a growl, and she took a second to admire his very fine behind, though just a second because there were sacrifices to rescue and she also didn’t want to get any demon blood on her sexy Bronze outfit, as she suspected this particular species was likely to stain and she was spending WAY too much of her valuable time on laundry already.

It was a good fight, a great fight, though since they had a human audience Buffy had to put a little effort into not flashing them with her pantyless crotch. (It might have been easier if she weren’t also at the same time putting a LOT of effort into blatantly flashing SPIKE with her pantyless crotch, but she was by God the Slayer, and she managed it. Twice.) When it was over, she stared at Spike through the clouds of dust, his eyes hungry on her, and had to force herself to turn to the victims and get them untied instead of launching herself across the crypt like a depraved sex maniac. Which of course she was, but again, audience.

She brushed aside the effusive thanks of the rescued sacrifices and gave them directions to the gate, suggesting they tell their entire tale to any policemen they might happen to encounter, particularly how awesome and rescue-y Buffy Summers and Spike had been, and in fact they might want to consider sending letters of commendation in to the SPD, if it wasn’t too much trouble. While she was talking, Spike sidled up beside her, so close that his hand was brushing against hers, and as soon as the crypt door had creaked shut behind the hapless couple, she was wrapping herself around Spike, kissing him desperately, and he lifted her by her thighs and she was on the sarcophagus, grinding frantically against his jeans under the desultory flashes of the mirror-ball as his lips traveled down her body, but she knew there wasn’t time, they had to check the other hotspots, so after a bit she held him close and heaved great shuddering breaths until her body had calmed down, and Spike heaved against her as if he needed to breathe, until she finally slid back to her feet and he stood back and watched her while she tugged her skirt down.

“Race you to the north wall?” she finally gasped out, and his eyes gleamed.

“What’s the prize?” he said harshly, voice barely above a whisper.

“What do you want it to be?”

He just laughed at that, a strangled, broken laugh that was sexier than any innuendo he could have thought of, and Buffy darted out the door, giggling. She could hear a faint siren in the distance as she ran and ran, Spike’s feet pounding behind her, and just as they were about to reach the north wall he scooped her up and set the wall at her back and kissed her punishingly.

“I win,” he bit out, burying his face in her collarbone.

“I touched the wall first,” Buffy countered.

He nibbled her collarbone delicately. “I put you there.”

“Not my fault you scored an own goal,” Buffy laughed, pulling his face up for more kissing. When they broke for her to breathe, she pressed her forehead against his. “What’s my prize?”

“What do you want it to be?” he murmured against her flushed cheek.

You, she thought feverishly. But she couldn’t say it, it was a bridge too far, too vulnerable, so instead she slid her hands under his shirt and butted her head against his chest. “I’ll think of something good,” she smiled, peering over his shoulder at the new grave, its granite headstone fresh and gleaming. A hand popped out of the soil like a really gross daisy. “Heads up, Spike. We have company.”

Spike slipped a stake out of his pocket and pressed it into her hand like a kiss. “Three’s a crowd, love,” he whispered, and then stomped over to the emerging vampire, grasping his exposed arm and pulling him out through the loose soil.

“Thanks, bro!” the vampire said cheerily.

“My pleasure!” Spike purred as Buffy charged in and staked the vampire unceremoniously.

As the dust settled to the ground, Buffy seized Spike by the lapels of his duster and kissed him, because he was there and gorgeous and hers. “You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” she giggled against his lips.

“Can show you a better time,” Spike suggested, running his hands over the curves of her ass.

“One more grave,” Buffy admonished him. “And then we have to do the next cemetery. We didn’t technically patrol last night.”

Spike curved his fingers in to trace at her dampness. “It was worth it,” he muttered huskily into her ear.

“Tonight will be worth it, too,” Buffy promised, turning and jogging in the direction of the woods.

Spike jogged by her side, hands swinging awkwardly to brush against hers. “Already is, love,” he offered up.

She eyed him sidelong. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” he said shortly, eyes focused on the distant woods.

They ran in silence for a few minutes. Finally the new grave came into sight, clearly visible from the brown mound of earth – no grass yet – and the fresh flower arrangements crowding the headstone.

Buffy came to a halt at the edge of the bare dirt. It was undisturbed. She tapped her foot against the grass in irritation. “Dammit. Can’t tell if it’s just a normal dead guy, or a late bloomer.”

Spike tilted his head to the side, listening intently. “Late bloomer. Can hear him scratching at the inside of the coffin.”

“You can hear that?” Buffy frowned.

“Fingernails on satin,” Spike shrugged. “Fairly distinctive. Probably be a bit before he makes his way out, though.”

Buffy meandered over to the tall headstone opposite, leaning against it; it was just a hair too high for her to sit. “So we need to wait.” She sighed grumpily. “I hate waiting.”

Spike strolled towards her. “Can find a way to kill the time.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Need to watch the grave, Spike.”

“You do that, love,” Spike purred. “Watch the grave.” He was almost in front of her, but instead of stopping there he slid around her, until he was directly behind her, the headstone and a few inches of air the only thing separating them. He set his hands on the stone on either side of her hips, thumbs brushing lightly against her skirt, and blew gently on the exposed skin of her neck, above her jacket collar. “Don’t stop watching, yeah?” he said in an achingly quiet voice, and then his hands were on her breasts, rubbing the silky red fabric of her halter against her sensitized nipples. Buffy riveted her eyes on the loamy brown soil of the new grave, breathing deeply.

“The police…”

Spike’s lips brushed her earlobe. “No roads up to here. They’ll have to walk. I’ll see them before they see us.” He lifted his hands away abruptly. “But I’ll stop if you want.”

“Don’t stop,” Buffy whispered.

Spike was silent behind her for a long moment. “Then I won’t stop,” he said finally. His forehead was suddenly cool against the nape of her neck, his hands gliding around her waist again, this time stealing under the hem of her halter, oozing up and up and when his clever rough thumbs reached her nipples she bit her lip and sank back against the tombstone, knees weak. Her eyes drifted shut.

“Keep your eyes open, love.” Spike’s voice was hypnotic. “Watch the grave.” There was a rumble behind her that was something between a chuckle and a groan as he stroked, lips trembling against her hair.

Watching the unmoving dirt with Spike’s hands rough and knowing against her skin was surreal and somehow beautiful, like a poem, and as his hands slid back down across her stomach, dividing to glide down the outsides of her thighs, she started to pant in anticipation.

Oh, God. Was the dirt moving, or was she hallucinating? She willed it to not be moving, not yet, because Spike’s hands had migrated to her inner thighs, tracing random patterns on the sensitive skin, teasing, and she could feel her ragged breaths turning to moans, then soft curses as his fingers traced higher and higher but never quite high enough. He was wrapped around her now, chest tight against her back as he leaned over the granite block that separated their hips, arms pressed against her sides, and she slid her own hands up around his neck so that her whole body was open to him and he was supporting her weight and her world narrowed to only his hands on her body and the unmoving dirt in front of her – oh please, don’t move yet, she chanted inwardly – and his hands finally made it to the juncture of her thighs, fingers delicately spreading her for exploration, and she bit her lip hard to keep from screaming.

Spike laughed brokenly against her earlobe, taking it between his teeth. “God, you’re wet,” he crooned, probing tenderly with his fingers. “Not too sore?”

“A little,” she admitted softly. “But don’t stop.”

One of his hands traveled back up to clasp her breast firmly, leaving a trail of dampness all up her stomach, cold in the night air, while his other hand probed and rubbed, and his teeth tugged at her ear, until she jerked and came with a hissed obscenity.

Spike’s hands stilled, cupping her possessively and protectively, and his lips brushed just behind her ear. “Such language, kitten. I always knew you were a bad, bad girl.”

She started to turn, to show him what a bad girl she was, but his arms trapped her and kept her facing forward. “Watch the grave, love. Should be out any minute now.”

She butted her head back against his shoulder, frustrated. “But you promised not to stop.”

Spike stroked her again, fingers strong and sure. “Won’t stop. Can do this all night,” he said, voice like gravel.

Buffy stood up straight, resolute. “I know you could,” she said determinedly. (Her air of resolve was slightly undermined by the way she was rocking her pelvis against his talented fingers, but really, a girl could only resist so much.) “And, you know, this is good. Really good.” She undulated against him. “Yeah. Wow. Good.” She covered his hand with her own, then grasped it firmly and lifted it away, not without a sigh. He made a noise that she couldn’t quite interpret – Disappointment? Encouragement? Anticipation? – but she kept her eyes fixed on the patch of silent dirt as she sidled back around the gravestone until she and Spike were side by side. “Take off your coat,” she said darkly.

He did; she could feel him quivering like a bowstring. She held out her hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, he laid the leather over her palm, stepping back warily, hovering in her peripheral vision. She held up the coat in front of her for a moment, then ceremoniously draped it over the headstone in front of her, smoothing it out with her hands. Spike made another noise, but she knew this noise, it was his hungry noise, and she smiled at the realization that he was catching on, and she stepped forward until her hipbones were right up against the leather-draped-granite, still watching the fresh grave, and without looking at Spike, knowing his eyes were on her, she reached both hands back and took the hem of her skirt and pulled it up until she was completely exposed to the night air, shifting slowly until her legs were spread wide and her hips were tilted back and the top of the gravestone was hard under her stomach. She heard a sharp intake of breath behind her, and smiled.

The grass crunched under his feet as he stepped closer, and finally his hands were on her ass, gentle but assured. She imagined the look on his face as he stared at her, and shook slightly. He made his hungry noise again, and she responded by rising up on her tiptoes, thrusting her hips towards him as he molded her in his fingers.

“And just what am I supposed to do with this?” he said finally, voice struggling to be nonchalant but failing utterly.

Buffy considered a few clever retorts and subtle hints, but “clever” and “subtle” were really just “delays” when it came right down to it, so she just reached one hand back until it encountered his denim-clad hip, then from that landmark slid right in to stroke hard against his cock. “Spike,” she said quietly, in a trance of eye-of-the-hurricane calm. “You know damn well what to do.”

That was apparently enough words for him, and she began to tremble uncontrollably as she heard the rustling of denim and the growl of his zipper and then he was hard against her and then hard inside her, fingers digging in to her hips, and she could feel tears brimming in her eyes as they shifted against the headstone until he was as deep as he could go and she was securely braced, and he began to glide in and out of her, arms quivering from the effort of taking it slow.

“Watch the grave,” Spike bit out harshly.

“Watch for the police,” Buffy retorted, having trouble focusing on the dirt because her eyes wanted to roll up in her head. Was it moving now? She thought maybe, but then again it might just be Spike moving the earth under her feet.

But a moment later she had to admit to herself that it was in fact the dirt itself moving, because a grimy hand burst up through the soil, grasping for purchase, and she hissed and pushed back harder against Spike. “Don’t you dare stop!”

He started to laugh. “Stakes… are in the pocket, love,” he gasped out between thrusts.

Eyes riveted on the clutching vampire hand and the heaving loose soil, Buffy hitched her leg up on the edge of the tombstone for leverage as she reached down to tug the skirt of Spike’s duster upwards. Spike took the opportunity to shift angles and slide a hand around to stroke her, maddeningly out of rhythm, and she gasped and fumbled into the duster pocket and managed to grab a stake as the new vampire dragged his torso out and gradually clambered out of his hole. Spike slid his other hand over to clasp hers around the rough carved wood.

The fledgling started to brush dirt off his funeral suit, then noticed Buffy and Spike, gasping and heaving. “Whoa.”

“Evening, mate,” Spike said roughly, not even slowing. Buffy reared back, laughing. She could tell by his voice that he had shifted to vamp-face; he silkily ran his lips down her throat, fangs barely scraping her skin, which she knew should have terrified her even knowing he couldn’t bite her, but somehow it just made her hotter, like they were putting on a show. Thankfully for a doomed-to-stakeage audience.

The vampire stared at them agog. “Um, wow. Sorry to interrupt, dude.”

“Not at all,” Spike breezed, a bit brokenly. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Buffy glared back at him out of the corner of her eye. “Spike!” She thought hazily that she should actually make Spike stop now so she could do the staking, but she was so close to something brilliant that she really, really didn’t want to.

Spike was grinning ferally at the drooling vampire. “I think my lady has something she wants to share with you.” He thrust harder. Buffy shifted her weight to her stakeless hand, using the gravestone for leverage.

“Really?” The new vamp hurried closer. “There’s sharing?” He bared his fangs hopefully.

Spike’s hand slid out from under Buffy’s skirt, striking like a snake, taking the fledgling by the throat. “Actually, I don’t share,” he growled, genial mood gone, and the stake rose up in their intertwined hands and he drove his cock into Buffy hard while they drove the stake into the vamp’s chest together, watching his disappointed face crumble into dust, and then the stake fell to the ground as Spike clutched frantically at her hips again, and they pounded together like animals but it only took a few more strokes for Buffy to come apart, screaming and collapsing over the leather and stone, and Spike wasn’t far behind, convulsing behind her, and somehow they both tumbled to the grass, tangled and coughing from inhaled dust and laughing hysterically.

It took Buffy a minute to figure out where her limbs were relative to Spike, but eventually she managed to get them sorted out and wriggled around on top of him until her head was tucked under his chin and he was raining sweet little kisses into her hair. “What the hell just happened?” she laughed breathily.

Spike ran his hands in long strokes along the length of her body. “Something bloody fantastic,” he managed, voice shaking. “God, I knew you were a screamer.”

Buffy could feel her face turning red. “I, uh… wow. Did I scream?” She knew she had, of course, her throat was still raw from it, but it was still embarrassing. She HADN’T known she was a screamer, and it seemed like the sort of thing she should have known about herself, the way she knew she liked pizza and IceCapades.

“Music to my ears,” Spike murmured, stroking her hip with his knuckle.

Buffy settled in for a bit more snuggling, then jerked her head up, suddenly remembering. “Holy crap, the police!” She jumped to her feet and scanned the cemetery around them frantically.

“Not anywhere near, pet,” Spike sighed, rising up on his elbows and tilting his head for a better view up her skirt. “Though we probably shouldn’t linger, yeah? Another cemetery to patrol.”

Buffy looked down at him, lying there all grinning and sated and smug, his half-erect cock spilling temptingly out of his jeans, and felt her lips curving in a smile of her own, but a troubled one, because she suddenly realized she had laughed more in the past forty-eight hours than she had for weeks before, maybe even months, and while she was plenty used to laughing when she was with her friends, SEX had definitely never been about laughter, it had always been Serious Business with Drama and Emotions coupled with the uncertainty of whether she was any good at it – sometimes a firm conviction that she really wasn’t good at it, that she was somehow lacking – and now she and Spike were just fucking and laughing and laughing and fucking, all mingled together, and where the hell had that all come from anyway? The sex, well, she had made a decision on that, but she hadn’t planned on all the laughter, and it was throwing her for a loop.

She realized then that she was staring at Spike, that his grin had faded and he was looking up at her uncertainly, as if he expected her to stake him any moment, so she shook herself and held out her hand to him. He looked at it with serious eyes for a moment, then nodded his head the barest twitch in acknowledgment, eyes softening, and reached out to clasp it, letting her haul him to his feet.

When he was standing, looking down at her with a strange light in his eyes, she tugged his hand to her chest, holding it over her heart for a moment before releasing it. “Better put that thing away before someone gets hurt,” she quipped saucily, rewarded by a sardonic, suggestive quirk of his lips as he fastened up his jeans again and snatched up his leather duster. He looked at it for a moment before slipping it on, mouth twisting oddly, but after a quick sidelong glance at her he flung it around his shoulders, stuffing his hands in his pockets defiantly. Buffy tugged a bit at her own wrinkled clothes, though she feared it was a hopeless cause and she was doomed to spend the rest of the night’s patrol looking like she had lost a fight with a grizzly bear.

Once they were as assembled as they were likely to be, Spike pulled out a cigarette and lit it, glancing around. “Which way, love? Out the front gate?”

Buffy shook her head decisively. “That way lies the strong possibility of wrongful arrest,” she said firmly. “We’ll hop the south wall, follow the edge of the woods around to the road, go from there.”

Spike nodded briskly and turned towards the south, sliding his hands back in his pockets. Buffy trotted to catch up with him, clasping her hands behind her back as they walked.

It didn’t feel right.

After a minute or so, Buffy sighed in resignation and snuck her hand into his pocket, wriggling her fingers through his until they were securely clasped. He flicked a startled look at her, sucking hard on his cigarette, then squeezed gently, sliding their hands out of his pocket to swing between them. Buffy leaned in and rubbed her flushed cheek against his cool arm.

That was SO much better.

\---

“Your mother called.”

Giles was sitting at his desk when they finally arrived, the insouciant tilt of his head indicating he was already on his second tumbler of Scotch. The desk itself was littered with scraps of ancient paper and a few thick tomes that fairly screamed FORBIDDEN KNOWLEDGE. Buffy gave Giles a wide berth, just in case he was feeling observe-y, and headed into the kitchen for a Diet Coke. “Please tell me she wasn’t inviting you over for chocolates and nooky,” she teased, grabbing a bag of blood for Spike while she was in there. She snipped a corner off the bag with Giles’s kitchen scissors and filled up a mug, popping it in the microwave, because after that bit over the gravestone, he was going to need some serious energy replenishment. Especially considering what she had planned for him for later in the evening.

Through the pass-through, she could see that Giles had removed his glasses and was cleaning them furiously. Yep, the Band Candy blackmail still worked as a primo distraction. She bet he hadn’t even noticed her serious wardrobe malfunction.

Giles made a few uncomfortable noises before coming to the point. “Not as such, no,” he finally replied. “She was rather looking for you. She left me with the impression that you were expected home? Something related to the holidays?”

Buffy nearly spit out her sip of aspartame. “Oh, crap.”

Spike ducked his head to peer in at her. “That better not be the sound of you dying in there, Slayer.” His voice was concerned, but then his eyes flicked to Giles and he raised his voice melodramatically. “At least let a fellow watch your unfortunate demise.”

Buffy shoved his mug of icky stamina across the counter at him, hoping he would drink up and stop overacting. “You wish, Spike!”

“I assure you, Spike, that if Buffy has endured three nights of your scintillating company on patrol, she is unlikely to meet her end due to a simple reminder of her familial obligations,” Giles sighed ironically.

“You haven’t met my Aunt Arlene,” Buffy replied automatically, mind racing. “Seriously, though, this is…not so good. How am I supposed to explain Spike?”

Spike shrugged. He had hung his duster next to her coat on Giles’s coatrack and dumped his red button-down somewhere, so was down to just his T-shirt. His skin-tight t-shirt. Mmmm. Buffy considered fixing him another mug of nourishment, because really, she had Ideas. “Joyce is a good sort. ‘Spect she’ll just give you a stern look and then start warming chocolate.”

“Is that supposed to happen before or after we tell her about the vandalism, the arrests, and the police monitoring? Or maybe we can slip it in right after we mention the live-in boyf…. ARCH-NEMESIS.” Buffy glared at him.

A grin showed he hadn’t missed her little Freudian slip. “Joyce likes me,” he retorted cheekily. “Has an eye for quality.”

Buffy looked at him wryly. “Have you SEEN what she sells in her gallery?”

“Good Lord, do you two EVER stop?” Giles glared at them both equally. “Buffy, I’d be happy to assist you in creating a clever and audacious cover story, but for the moment I merely wished to suggest you telephone your mother in the morning. She was quite concerned that you had not returned the message she left on your answering machine. It’s difficult on her, knowing as she does of your calling. She deserves regular contact so that she may at least be relieved of the burden of wondering whether you are alive.” Somewhere along the line his voice had shifted into lecture mode.

Buffy had to hand it to him, he really knew how to guilt-trip. She sighed. “You’re right, Giles. I’ll call her.” She sent Spike a guilty glance. “I don’t mean to be all self-absorbed, it’s just, you know, I spend a lot of time with myself, so it kinda happens.”

Giles smiled gently. “It’s quite all right, Buffy. You know your mother wants you to enjoy your collegiate life. Just… be kind.” He glared at Spike. “And I wouldn’t put too much stock in Joyce’s taste, given her propensity for masks of dubious provenance that end up raising the dead.”

Spike grinned. “Knew she was my kind of lady.”

“Also, I wouldn’t throw stones, Mr. Twice-on-the-hood-of-a-police-car.” Buffy’s eyes widened. “Wait, is that why I’m having so much trouble with the cops? Did I inherit juvie-ness from my mom?”

Giles shrugged, his face carefully neutral. “I feel quite comfortable in stating that your mother is less responsible for your current plight than certain vampires in this room who shall, of course, remain nameless.”

Giles had a look on his face that told Buffy he was really done talking about his teenage-midlife-chocolate-crisis, and she was totally willing to change the subject, because the fun of embarrassing her stodgy mentor was definitely dragged down by the icky images that popped up in her head when she thought about it too much. Images which had been bad enough when she had only her one shy, under-the-covers time with Angel to fuel her imagination, but now were distressingly technicolor and raunchy, thanks to Spike. She really didn’t want to picture her mother and Giles doing that, or THAT, or dear GOD definitely not THAT, and she absolutely did not want to know if she had inherited the screaming thing from her mom along with juvenile delinquency. Not. Ever.

So Buffy dug a slice of leftover pizza out of the fridge (Spike wasn’t the only one who was in need of energy) and came out to sit on the stool next to Spike. Which she immediately realized was a bad idea, because her fingers and toes - and every inch of her body in between – were suddenly itching to touch him, but Giles was giving her his full attention, so probably not the best idea at this exact moment. Unfortunately, getting up at this point would be even more obvious, so she leaned back against the counter and tried to look businesslike. “Any luck on the stuff?” She munched on the pizza, finishing it off quickly.

Giles looked down. “If you mean the anklets, no, nothing as of yet. As far as your legal options, I have put in a call to a law office in Los Angeles that the Watcher’s Council has occasionally made use of, but of course they are unlikely to call back on the weekend.” He looked up, an eager smile on his face, eyes lit with the fire of research-ly fervor. “I have, however, found information on any number of green demons that might fit the description of the ones Spike spoke of yesterday evening. Tell me, would you describe the green as malachite green? Or more the color of pea soup?”

It took Buffy a minute to remember as far back as the green demons in the woods – how many orgasms ago had that been? – at least in part because Spike had nonchalantly laid an arm across the edge of the counter and his fingers were tugging gently at the strings of her halter top, tracing patterns on her exposed back, and she was seriously turned on. Again. “I, um, I’ve never had pea soup,” she finally said. “It sounds really gross, though. Soup should not be green. What’s malachite?”

She couldn’t tell if the grumpy look on Giles’s face was for her lack of mineral knowledge (something-ite meant a rock, right? Like kryptonite and, um, tanzanite, and probably all sorts of other rocks, but definitely kryptonite) or because she was dissing the grody green soup of his homeland, but she didn’t care at all, because Spike had found one of the tails of her string bow, and was starting to tug it loose.

“Green demons are history,” Spike said offhandedly. “Stars of tonight’s brawl were more of a beige. Maybe taupe.” He looked at Buffy innocently, tugging hard on the string. “Would you say beige or taupe, love? Was a bit hard to tell with the mirror ball.” The bow came loose.

Giles looked at her expectantly. Buffy took a very deliberate breath, trying not to pant. “Probably taupe. They had horns like…” She started to lift her arms to indicate the shape at her forehead, but she felt the fabric of her shirt slipping and quickly dropped her arms back to her sides, pressing the fabric in place with her elbows. “Horns. Kind of twisty.”

Spike nodded sagely. “Very horny.”

With a sigh, Giles looked back at his books. “Taupe. With twisty horns.”

“Oooh, they were doing some kind of sacrifice. With lots of candles.” Buffy was suddenly in the mood to hurry this patrol report along. “We also took out two vamps in Restfield, and three more in Shady Rest.”

“Five vampires?” Giles glanced at Spike. “Very impressive.”

“Yep,” Spike drawled. “Slayer and I really cleaned up.” He cast a sidelong look at Buffy, who willed her face not to turn red. She had commented on their walk to the south wall of Restfield that she needed to start bringing a towel with on patrol, because between his orgasms and hers she was basically Niagara Falls down below – not the most comfortable situation – and Spike had obligingly laid her down on a soft patch of moss just on the other side of the wall and cleaned her Very Thoroughly Indeed, with his tongue. Then he had gotten her all messy again (with his tongue) just so he could clean her up some more (with his tongue). He really had a thing for tongues. Which was convenient, because she had also developed a thing for his tongue. She even was starting to enjoy it when he just used it for talking, though she would never admit it to him.

Anyhow, she guessed she didn’t really need a towel after all – because given the choice between “towel” and “lots of oral sex,” well, that wasn’t even a contest – but she was starting to give serious thought to packing a bag with other patrol necessities, like whipped cream. Also possibly some kneepads. It was totally her Sacred Duty to clean up this town, and she could start and finish with Spike.

Giles was leafing through the thickest and crustiest of the tomes on his desk. “Are you quite certain it was taupe?” he fretted. “Perhaps I should fetch the paint chips so that we might narrow it down further…”

Buffy stood up quickly, keeping her back away from Giles. Spike still had hold of the red string; she stepped to the side to make sure Giles couldn’t see it. “Gosh, Giles, look at the time. Maybe we could discuss our neutral-toned demon buddies tomorrow, when I’ve gotten some rest?” She yawned, trying for drama, and was a bit surprised when it turned into a real yawn, a huge jaw-cracking one. She mentally tallied her sleep for the last few nights. Well. That explained it. She wasn’t about to admit her weakness to Giles, though, so she smiled at him with gentle concern. “You should probably get some sleep, too. You’ve been hitting the books real hard lately.”

Giles looked longingly at his desk again. “I could stay up for another hour or so,” he suggested hopefully. “I believe I recall a reference to a species of tan demons in the Gilbert Bestiary…”

Buffy felt Spike tugging on her string, which might as well have been tied right to her ladyparts with the effect it was having on her, and grinned fiercely at Giles. “No! No, you should totally go get some rest. Right now.” She turned on the Bambi eyes. “I can’t have my Watcher all bleary-eyed and sleepy. I’m very sure that it’s Not Safe.”

“We can talk shop in the morning,” Spike agreed, giving the string another sharp tug. Buffy didn’t dare risk a glance back, but she was pretty sure the only things holding her halter top on now were her arms, still pressed against her side, and the power of positive thinking. Which she was pretty sure was going to lose to gravity any second now.

Giles narrowed his eyes at Spike, opening his mouth as if to say something, then sighed and shook his head. “You’re quite right, Buffy,” he said, with a last unwilling glance at his books. (Buffy thought briefly that Giles looked at his research the way she looked at Spike, like his books were a yummy, sexy treat, which called up more icky images that she quickly locked out of her brain. What would you even call that? Bibliosexual?) “Perhaps I should retire for the evening.” He switched off the lamp on his desk with a reluctant click.

“Okay then. Good night, Giles!” Buffy sidled off towards the hallway. Spike let go of her string and strolled over to the couch, bouncing onto it and making a show of getting comfortable. She could feel the end of the lacing trailing against her calf, and shifted angles again to keep it out of sight.

Giles looked at her sharply. “You’re not hurt, are you? You’re walking very strangely.”

“Oh no,” Buffy hastily replied. “Just, you know, blisters. From the boots.” She shook her head ruefully. “Not a smart choice for patrol.”

“As opposed to the rest of your outfit, which is eminently practical.” Giles had that look on his face, the one that so plainly begged all the gods that existed to deliver him from teenage girls.

“Got me there, Giles.” Buffy smiled winningly, inching closer to the hall. “Good night!”

Giles nodded at her, and turned to head up the stairs to his loft. “Good night, Buffy.”

“Good night, Giles!” Spike mocked obnoxiously from the couch, waggling his eyebrows at Buffy. She glared at him.

“Good night, Spike.” Giles sighed tetchily as he trudged up the stairs, his stiff back betraying his annoyance at having to reply to Spike at all.

Buffy waited until his feet were out of sight, then hurried over to Spike, grabbing his hands and dragging him up and down the hall and into the spare room, pressing him up against the inside of the door as she locked it.

He stared at her in surprise. “Don’t you want to wait until he’s asleep?” His voice was a harsh whisper.

She grinned back. “Nope.” Her hands fumbled hurriedly at his belt. “I don’t want to wait at all.”

He grinned at that, taking her arms and turning her around so that she was the one up against the door. “Good. Neither do I.” He sank to his knees and she closed her eyes in expectation of his tongue, but instead he took her booted foot and lifted it up with both hands, placing a tender kiss on her shin, which still bore a bruise from the night’s slaying. He unzipped the zipper, slowly sliding off the boot and setting it to the side of the door, along with the weapons that had been tucked inside. “One.” He tugged off her thick sock, kissing her instep and massaging her sole for a moment before he set the foot down.

“One what?” Buffy gasped at the feel of his hands on her legs. She was sopping wet again. Cleanup on Aisle Two, she thought dizzily.

“One zipper,” Spike replied softly, lifting her other foot and repeating the process. His lips quivered against her ankle. “Two.”

“So you love to count things,” Buffy joked weakly as his hands slid over her calves, lingering at the backs of her knees, which threatened to give way. “Did the Count on Sesame Street steal his schtick from you, too? Like Billy Idol? ”

Spike stood slowly, running his hands all up the backs of her thighs and over her ass and up to her waist, meeting right at the small of her back. He was right up against her, eyes burning into hers, as one hand gripped the skirt’s waistband and the other slowly slid the skirt zipper down until the skirt fell off her hips and she was naked below the waist. He nuzzled at the pulse point in her neck, then grazed her with his blunt teeth. “Three.” He rested his hands lightly on her hips, brushing his cheek against her jaw. “Three zippers.” He angled his head up to take her earlobe between his teeth, tugging gently. “Ah-ah-ah!” he fake-laughed in a terrible Transylvanian accent, and she could feel the thunder and lightning going off inside her; she dropped her head back against the door and laughed and laughed, but silently, because Giles was probably still awake, and she took Spike’s face in her hands and kissed him sweetly, fingers tracing his cheekbones and his jaw and his ears, still giggling up against his lips, and his hands were on her back finishing up with the laces and undoing the tie at her neck and tossing her nothing of a halter top away, and she yanked his shirt over his head, because it had been hours and hours since she had felt his bare skin against hers and she rubbed her breasts and her belly up against him until he groaned and ground her up against the door, which made an awful thump. They froze, listening for Giles, but not for very long, just a token listen, because they were too far gone to actually care, and Spike lifted Buffy bodily and stumbled away from the door and they fell onto the bed. She wriggled backwards and he followed her, lips brushing against her shoulder and her knee, whatever body part happened to be close to his mouth at a given moment, and when they were both stretched out on the bed, Buffy flipped him onto his back and slid her hand down the center of his chest and along his stomach, sliding her whole naked body down between his spread legs, and flicked open the button on his jeans, and watched his desperate, eager face with a coy smile as she took his zipper in her fingers and dragged it down slowly.

“One,” she whispered.

\---

There was a knocking sound that wouldn’t stop, though Buffy tried slapping the alarm clock (which she eventually remembered she hadn’t set, because it was Saturday) and the pillow and the headboard and even Spike (who growled and rolled over to nuzzle fiercely at her neck, still asleep) and finally her eyes creaked open and she realized someone was knocking on the locked door to the spare room, not very loudly, very politely in fact, which meant it was almost certainly Giles, and HOLY CRAP GILES WAS AWAKE AND KNOCKING ON HER DOOR AND SHE WAS NAKED IN BED WITH SPIKE.

She leaped out of bed, instinctively snatching up an article of clothing to cover herself, because even though Giles couldn’t see her, she couldn’t talk to him NAKED even through the door, but of course what she ended up grabbing was her halter top, which was the size of a postage stamp. She clutched it to her chest anyhow – because it was still better than being totally nude, it was technically clothing – and nervously scuttled over to the door. Spike had roused and was watching her from the bed, eyelids drooping low; he obviously didn’t feel the need for coverage that she did, just lounging there all naked and tasty and evil and tempting, and she couldn’t stop looking at him, running her eyes along his delectable angles and curves, and she wanted him again, even knowing Giles was barely a foot away.

“Buffy?” Giles’s voice sounded worried, frantic even, and Buffy hastened to answer, just in case he was thinking of breaking down the door.

“Yeah, Giles? Um, good morning?”

A gusty sigh sounded through the door. “Thank God. When I saw that Spike was missing, I thought surely…” He trailed off; Buffy could practically hear the gears in his head turning. “Buffy, where is Spike?”

She closed her eyes in resignation. “He’s in here.”

There was a long silence. She looked at Spike and he looked at her, both clearly wondering if Giles was about to charge through the door with a stake. Buffy took a deep breath and leaned up against the door, bracing her feet. Just in case. Spike’s eyes widened with something like awe.

Finally Giles spoke, voice careful. “May I ask WHY Spike is in there?”

Grasping at straws, Buffy laughed. It sounded fake, even to her. “Giles, did you know your living room couch is more than fifty feet from your spare room? Fun fact!”

There was another long silence. Buffy prayed Giles wouldn’t realize that the bathtub that had served as Spike’s bed for some time was significantly closer.

Spike cleared his throat and chimed in. “Don’t worry, Watcher. Slayer kept me in my place.” He looked at her hotly, rolling to his feet like the palest panther ever and stalking over to her, biting his lip. It was possibly the sexiest thing she had ever seen. He stopped right in front of her, his eyes almost closed, the barest glitter under his eyelashes, and he stroked his index finger along her cheek, and down her throat and across her nipple and down her stomach, right down between her legs, and by the time it reached its destination she was already wet and ready, and she spread her braced legs wide and closed her eyes and covered her own mouth with her hand so she didn’t make a sound. “Beat me good and proper, made me sleep on the floor. Didn’t even give me a blanket.” He stroked his whole hand through her wetness; she bit her knuckle. “God, how I loathe her.” His eyes were hard and intense on hers as he worked her and she struggled to stay completely still so that the door wouldn’t jiggle.

More silence. Buffy’s knuckle was starting to hurt; she pulled it out of her mouth and Spike caught it, kissed it tenderly, placing her hand over his heart. He stroked her cheek with his own knuckle, then slid it between her teeth, grinning sharply. She fixed her eyes on his, then bit down hard with his next knowing stroke between her legs. His eyes rolled back in his head and he stroked harder, except not harder exactly, just more intensely, like all of his existence was focused in his hands, like energy was flowing from Buffy’s sharp white teeth right down to where he was pressing and flicking her clit with his too-clever fingertips. She slid her hand up from his heart to touch his lips, and he caught her thumb between them, sucking it deep into his cool wet mouth.

“You should have told me.” Giles’s voice startled her, she had almost forgotten he was there, and Spike took advantage of her surprise and bit down on her thumb and tweaked his fingers against her, and she shuddered with a sudden orgasm, legs taut to keep the door still, teeth sinking deep into Spike’s knuckle. She tasted blood.

She lifted damp eyes to Spike’s face. “Sorry.” His eyes were soft now; he teased gently at her lip with his bloody knuckle, then stroked it down her cheek. His other hand traced damp swirls along her hip.

Giles sighed brusquely. “Well. Would you like some breakfast?”

God, was he still there? “Sure. Be out in a few.” Spike pressed his forehead against hers, then tilted his head to the side to lick the blood off her cheek. She vibrated like a bell.

There was another sigh from the hallway, then Giles’s footsteps receded down the hall, and Buffy let her legs relax and sank to the floor, pulling Spike down with her. He seemed about to make with the snuggling, which was a nice idea in theory, but Buffy was still racing with adrenaline, and snuggling was just not going to cut it, so she shoved him back onto the carpet and took his hands in hers, twined their fingers together, pressed them down next to his head. She slung her leg over him. His cock was gratifyingly hard already, and she looked down at him imperiously, into his wide blue eyes, as she ground against him, angling and shifting her hips until she finally took him in with a sigh of completion.

He looked so surprised to be inside her, he always looked so surprised, every time, and she leaned forward and let her hair fall like a curtain around their faces as she drank in that surprise, reassured him with a brush of her lips against his, a smidgen of secret tenderness as she pounded against him and he drove his cock up into her, his fingers clenched in hers, both of them struggling to stay silent, because they could hear pots clanking in the kitchen, which meant Giles would certainly hear them if they got too enthusiastic with the moaning and groaning.

Which of course meant that Buffy had to swallow her scream a short while later when she came apart around him; she buried her face in his neck and collapsed, and Spike took advantage of her loosened grip to roll her over and take control, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and holding her close as he thrust and thrust, until he came with a muttered curse.

Buffy curled into him, stroking his back gently as he shuddered against her. NOW she could make with the snuggling. Though she was coming to realize that fucking athletically on the carpet (the SHAG carpet, she giggled to herself) was possibly not the brightest of ideas, because her knees and her back were definitely rug-burned. It was going to be a turtleneck-and-pants day for sure.

\---

After a (tragically solo) shower, Buffy donned her favorite white turtleneck (which made her look sweet and innocent) and her black leather pants (which made her ass look sinful), loaded the washing machine up with bedding again, and wandered into the kitchen, pulling her hair back into a ponytail. Giles had multiple frying pans going, full of various things, some of which she wasn’t sure she recognized, but there were eggs and bacon and sausage and beans (protein!) and bread and potatoes (carbs!) and tomatoes (she could never remember if they were a fruit or a vegetable in the food pyramid, so what the hell, she’d count them as both!) and she was so hungry she even thought she might try those little black sausage-ish slices, or the mystery meat in the pan right at the back.

“What’s for breakfast?” she said cheerily, innocently, as if she were the kind of girl who would never screw a vampire on her Watcher’s spare-room floor while said Watcher was cooking her a nutritious meal.

“Fry up,” he said shortly, obviously still a little miffed at not being told about Spike’s sleeping arrangements. And he didn’t even know about the not-sleeping parts. She hoped.

“Yum,” Buffy said with a hint of irony, though it did look tasty. That was quite possibly the least descriptive name for a dish that she had ever heard – appropriate, of course, because frying, but it didn’t communicate a darn thing other than cooking method, certainly not what the mystery meat was, but she guessed this was one of those subtext things that Giles was so fond of. It was subtext meat.

Giles futzed around with his frying for a moment longer before looking at her pointedly. “This will take a few more minutes. Perhaps you could use this time to call your mother.”

“Gotcha.” So Giles wasn’t going to ask any more about her Spare Room Shenanigans. That was either a huge relief, or a sign that he was waiting for a time when he wasn’t covered in grease spatters for the Big Lecturama. He did rather need his hands free to use his glasses to best effect for the stern looks, and the cleaning, and the granddaddy of all Giles-glasses-maneuvers, the I-am-so-done-I-am-removing-my-glasses-but-haven’t-even-the-will-left-to-clean-them.

She snagged the cordless phone and dialed her home phone number, wandering a bit down the hall. Spike was in the shower, happily singing that song about the slug, a bit off-key; she took up a station at the bend of the hall, where she could keep an eye out for Giles coming out of the kitchen but also keep her other eye out for Spike coming out of the bathroom, in case he was naked.

Her mother picked up on the first ring, like she had been waiting by the phone, which she probably had been, and now Buffy felt really guilty. “Hi mom!” she chirped.

“Oh, Buffy!” Her mom’s voice was relieved. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry I didn’t call back.” Buffy’s fingers itched to twitch in the phone cord that didn’t exist – darn these technological advances, denying her the nervous habits of her childhood! “There’s been a lot going on.”

“So, what’s this Mr. Giles was saying about Spike?”

Buffy froze. “I, uh, I don’t know. What did he say?”

“He said you were out patrolling with him. I thought Spike had left town to go make up with his girlfriend.”

“Oh. Yeah. That was last year.” Buffy felt a little knot in her stomach thinking of Drusilla, about how Spike would do anything for her, even crossing continents just for a second chance. A one woman man. “She dumped him. He came back.” Her voice sounded snippy to her own ears; she sighed and modulated her tone. “There’s actually a lot that’s happened. Can I tell you the whole story tonight?”

Joyce was silent for a moment. “I suppose. I thought you were going to move out of the dorms for the holidays yesterday, before your night out with your friends. I had dinner waiting for you.”

Great. More guilt. “I’m sorry, mom. Something… came up.” And wasn’t that a boatload of euphemism?

“So you’re coming home today?”

“Yeah. I have to swing by the dorms and do some laundry, pack up a few more things.” Buffy sank against the wall. “We’re having a Scooby meeting tonight at Giles’s apartment, but I’ll come by the house first.”

“Good. And are we still on for shopping tomorrow?”

“Oh. Yeah. Um. Maybe.” That would be interesting. “So, uh, mom? I need to bring home a… guest. Is the guest room clean?”

“There’s a few boxes, but nothing that twenty minutes’ work won’t clear up.” There was a long pause. “So, do I know this guest?”

“…Yeah.”

“Oh, thank goodness. I thought for a moment you were going to introduce me to your new boyfriend, and I am so not prepared for that.”

You have no idea. “No, it’s…” Buffy took a deep breath. “Mom, it’s Spike.”

“…You want Spike to sleep in our guest room.” There was a definite note of disapproval in her mother’s voice.

I want Spike to sleep in MY room, except not do any sleeping, but I’m pretty sure you’re not going to go for that. “Yeah. He kind of… needs to.”

“And I suppose this is part of the ‘long story’ you’ll be telling me tonight.”

“Yep.”

“I am beginning to get the idea that I’m not going to like this story.”

No. No, you’re not. “It’s actually pretty funny…” Buffy hedged, trailing off when she realized the funniest parts mostly involved Spike ravaging her body, and her mom wasn’t likely to laugh at those. Not that she was going to hear those parts. No, she was definitely going to get the edited-for-television version. Which actually, now that she thought about it, might not be that long after she cut out the sex.

“Oh, I’m sure it is.” Her mother’s voice dripped with sarcasm, another thing Buffy had inherited from her. Though her mom managed to make it sound sweet. How did she do that? Buffy felt like she always sounded mean, which was handy for the combat-punning, but not-so-handy for the keeping-friends thing.

“So, I’ll see you this afternoon?” Buffy was ready to end this conversation, before her mom asked her anything really uncomfortable, but then the bathroom door opened and Spike came out wrapped in a towel, and she could hear her mother’s voice in her ear but had no clue what she was saying, because Spike’s hair was damp and curly and rumpled and even though she had seen him naked a whole hell of a lot over the past week, desire still hit her like a punch in the gut, not a wimpy punch from a human but like that time a rampaging Chirago demon had launched her over the Alpert crypt, and then Spike saw her and grinned and dropped his towel to rummage in the basket of clean laundry, and wow, was she actually drooling? She was. She surreptitiously wiped it away.

Her mom’s voice sounded again, louder, and Buffy shook herself. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. Got distracted.”

“What time should I expect you?”

Spike was taking his damn time about picking out his clothes, deliberately slouching into a pose that showed off his delicious abs. And other delicious bits. Buffy approved. “Um, five?” That should allow enough time for laundry, packing, and a couple of hours more sex. Somewhere. Anywhere.

Spike finally made his decision between two identical black t-shirts, and pulled his choice over his head, slowly, a reverse strip-tease. The neck of the shirt caught on his lower lip as his head slipped through, dragging it down a bit, and she barely caught herself before making a noise she definitely didn’t want to share with her mom. Oh, crap, she was talking again. “What was that?” Spike grinned victoriously, turning his attention to weighing the merits of two identical pairs of black jeans. (There was a pair of blue jeans too, but she had only seen him wear them the once. It had obviously been a phase.)

“I said, see you at five. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I am totally fine.” Other than being a raging nymphomaniac with a thing for peroxided evilness. “Don’t worry.”

Joyce laughed. “Oh, honey. I have to worry. I’m a mom.”

“You are. You’re the best mom.” Buffy sighed. “I love you.”

Spike abruptly turned his back to her, yanking on his jeans. Which was a crime, but necessary if they were ever going to go out in public ever again. It was also a crime that they had to go out in public ever again, that they couldn’t just order in food and spend the rest of her life in bed, but nobody ever said the world was fair. Especially not for Buffy Summers.

“I am so not going to like this story,” her mom said archly. “But I love you too. Bye.”

“Bye.” Buffy disconnected the phone and set it on top of the washer, sliding her arms around Spike’s waist from behind. “Mom’s going to tidy up the spare room for you.”

“Mmmm.” He seemed a little stiff, but he leaned back into her embrace. “Silk sheets?” They both kept their voices low, barely above a whisper, aware of Giles busily frying away in the kitchen.

“Of course not. But the bed is pretty comfy.”

He sighed dramatically. “I suppose I can endure the torture of the comfy guest bed.”

Buffy squeezed him tightly. “My bed is comfier. So once mom is asleep…”

“Right.”

“We’ll have to be quiet.”

Spike growled deep in his throat. “Like hearing you scream.” She couldn’t see his face, but she could hear the pout.

Buffy liked screaming, or maybe not the screaming itself but the needing to scream and the being able to let it all go, so she kissed his t-shirt between his shoulder blades and gave him another squeeze. “We do have a basement. And Mom has a job.”

Spike turned in her arms and planted a swift kiss atop her head. “Brilliant!” he breathed, and then his lips were on hers, and she lost herself in that for a few seconds, but the noise from the kitchen broke her out of it, and she reluctantly stepped back.

“Breakfast,” she said apologetically, and he grinned at her and patted her shoulders bracingly.

“Good idea. A hearty English breakfast builds up stamina for a hard day’s work.” He leaned in close again, lips brushing her ear. “And I plan on working you VERY hard today.”

“I think you’re forgetting who’s in charge here.” Buffy leaned back, smiling so he knew she was joking. Sort of. But Spike inhaled sharply, eyes going a bit unfocused, in a way that said he was incredibly turned on by Buffy being in charge, which was good because Buffy had started to figure out that she was incredibly turned on by being in charge, by having a powerful, deadly man like Spike submit to her, and so she wound a hand in his shirt and tugged him closer and a bit down so her face was right up in his. “I’ll just have to teach you once and for all who’s in charge later.”

“I’m a slow learner,” Spike whispered shakily.

“Then I’ll just have to teach you again and again. Until you’ve LEARNED.” She let him go then, patting his scrunched up shirt back into place, sneaking a glance up at his eyes, which were gratifyingly wide. “So! Let’s go have some breakfast.” She turned and sauntered back down the hall, feeling Spike trailing behind her.

She ate everything Giles served her. Even the subtext meat.

\---

Willow’s bed didn’t seem to have been slept in, which was probably for the best because the room was pretty stinky; Buffy quickly bundled up the bedding into her laundry basket and made Spike lug it down the hall to the laundry room, getting the wash going, then gathered the non-reeking-of-sex dirty laundry and piled it in her hamper to bring home. Most of what she needed otherwise was already at Giles’s – she could pack it after the Scooby meeting – and she could always come back and get more stuff, but she stuffed another bag with all of her remaining underwear (still probably not enough, Spike was hell on lingerie) and a few choice articles of clothing, and Mr. Gordo, which made Spike snort in derision but she didn’t care.

For some reason he wasn’t wearing his duster today, had instead pulled on a long-sleeved green shirt over his black tee, bringing along his battered wool military blanket to shield from the sun, but when she commented on it as they walked through the sewers he merely shrugged and muttered “Didn’t want to.” She wondered if it smelled like her now, if that was why, because she had certainly rubbed herself all over it, but she wasn’t going to argue with him, even if she did miss the feel of the butter-soft leather against her cheek. Cotton was nice too, especially with Spike’s bicep under it.

Once she was done packing, they switched the heavy bedding over to the dryer; Buffy stuffed in an extra six quarters, because her comforter took a lot of tumbling before it was dry, even in the big industrial dryers they had for the students’ use. When it was finally rumbling away, she sighed, looking hopefully at Spike. “So, what should we do now?” There were two other students in the laundry room, which kind of vetoed her original plan of having Spike fuck her right up against the hot, vibrating dryer. For now. She had a whole roll of quarters.

She was expecting him to suggest that they go back to their dorm room and put some more holes in the door (because seriously, that hole was not going to be fixable with spackle, she would probably have to pay for a whole new door, so she might as well get her money’s worth out of it) but instead he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

“I need to use a computer.”

She actually knew that Spike could use a computer – he had bragged about how he found Buffy’s room number in the university files – but she had no clue why he would want to now. He had found her already, right? She frowned. Maybe Drusilla used email. Maybe he was just waiting for her to send word across the internet that she wanted him back. Maybe… Then Buffy pictured Drusilla in front of a computer monitor, typing away into a chat window, and she laughed out loud, ignoring Spike’s quizzical look, because she was obviously insane if she thought Drusilla could set up an AOL account. It took intelligence and training to use the internet; that’s why it was all full of intellectual people having high-minded discussions and… oh, who was she kidding, she barely ever got online and even she knew it was full of porn and futile arguments, but even so, she didn’t think Drusilla was likely to use email if she wanted Spike back; she would probably find a more whimsical way, like sending an entrail-o-gram, or just coming back to Sunnydale and trying to skewer Buffy.

So she gave Spike an indulgent smile and said, “There’s a computer lab in the basement. But you have to promise not to do anything evil. Or illegal.” Spike nodded soberly, but he was bouncing a bit on his toes in excitement, so she gave him a sharp look. “Say it.”

“I promise not to do anything evil or illegal. I will access only wholesome social media.” He grinned cockily. “For you, pet, I won’t even be a troll. Not even on the Scientologist newsgroups.”

That didn’t make any sense to Buffy – while she did know people could pretend to be whatever they wanted on the internet, she didn’t see how pretending to be a troll instead of a vampire would be useful or entertaining – but she knew he was pulling her leg anyhow. “WHOLESOME social media? Really?”

Spike shrugged. “Maybe a little porn. But I’ll make sure it’s all legal porn.”

“Oh.” She thought about that for a moment, then shrugged. “I guess that’s okay.” Because really, if he was getting online tips about how to bring women off? He just needed to keep doing what he was doing.

But she was going to keep an eye on him. Just in case.

\---

Spike waited until Buffy had settled in with a bored sigh to her own computer before putting his plans into action, because fantastic and gorgeous and inventive and deadly as she was, the Slayer lived in the real world, not the world of Imagination, and she would never understand. Watching her out of the corner of his eye, he logged in and typed in a series of commands that took him to Heaven.

Or at least to alt.fan.passions.creative.

God, he hadn’t been able to get online since he’d broken into that admin office to get Buffy’s room number, and he had of course prioritized hunting down the Slayer over catching up on fanfiction, so he hadn’t been on Usenet since the fucking commandoes had tasered him, which was bloody WEEKS ago. He scrolled quickly through the posts. Fuck. How many pathetic twats had jumped on the Ethan/Gwen bandwagon? Gwethan shippers made him want to heave.

Ah! There it was! TWO WHOLE CHAPTERS of his favorite story had been posted! God, he hoped they weren’t all-plot-no-sex this time. He grinned evilly. (Well, not so much evilly, more geekily, except that he could not by definition be geeky, because he was Spike, so his grins defaulted to evil regardless of what he was doing.) With a surreptitious glance at Buffy, who was playing that game where she was an “@” sign hunting down various monsters represented by the letters of the alphabet in an endless ASCII dungeon, he sent the chapters to the dot-matrix printer. As the printer started to chatter, he scanned quickly to see if there was anything else promising, sending a few more possibilities to the printer.

He went back a level and was about to scroll up to alt.fan.dawsonscreek.creative, because the show was really not doing a satisfying job with Pacey’s love life these days, when a group at the bottom of the screen caught his eye. He scrolled down, sure he was only misreading, but there they were, two groups that had definitely not existed the last time he had logged on. Because he would sure as fuck have noticed alt.fan.spike and alt.fan.spike.creative.

With a nervous look at Buffy, Spike joined in and scrolled down to check the oldest posts. He recognized a few of the titles from the printouts the Ladies of the SPD had given him earlier in the week, but apparently they had been incredibly prolific since then; there were dozens of new posts, florid purple titles like “The Four Seasons of Spike (Spichaels)” and suggestive ones like “A Spike In the Dark (Spemp/Spomas)” and more-than-suggestive ones like “Spanking Spike (Spenson)” and completely WTF ones like “Spike ½ (Spakane) LEMON” which he couldn’t imagine who he was being paired with, unless it was a Washington State thing and he was supposed to be having sex with the city of Spokane, though where the extra “a” came from he couldn’t possibly tell, and also why lemon? And…

“What the hell is a Spemp? Is that one of the Three Stooges?”

Oh, FUCKETY-FUCKETY-FUCK.

Buffy was reading over his shoulder, brow furrowed in a complete lack of understanding, which Spike fervently hoped would continue forever. His hands came up automatically to cover the screen ineffectually. He managed to sputter out, “Slayer!” He pulled himself up, recovering a bit of composure and putting on a wounded face. “This is private. Do I spy on your private things?”

Buffy gave him a sidelong look that hinted she knew all about the secret videotapes and surveillance from his trying-to-kill-her days. Which he suddenly realized were probably still tucked away in that old warehouse. He would need to fetch those sometime… But Buffy was still reading around his splayed-out fingers, her face shifting from amused to incredulous. “Is this all about you?”

Spike sighed, dropping his hands. “Looks to be.”

“…I don’t get it. What is it?”

Spike stroked a hand along Buffy’s hip, coaxing. “Can I get you to walk away and pretend you never saw this?”

“No. No, you really can’t. Are these stories?”

“They do seem to be.”

“About you.”

“Apparently so.”

“And what is a Spemp?”

“Uh, yeah. I am fairly certain you don’t want to know.” Spike glared furiously at the offending screen. “I myself rather wish I didn’t know.”

“Wait, Spichaels… Does that have something to do with Officer Skank-ho?” Buffy was starting to get that pissed-off look in her eyes, which simultaneously terrified him and made him want to bend her over the printer station and fuck her hard. Though, to be fair, he basically always wanted to bend her over the nearest object of appropriate height and fuck her hard. Her being pissed off just made him want it MORE.

“Uh, possibly. Look, I just found this newsgroup five minutes ago. Haven’t exactly been studying the trends…”

“OH MY GOD. Spenson. OH MY GOD. These are about you and the SPD!” She peered more closely at the screen. “That one looks really naughty. Are you into spanking?”

“Look, Slayer. I can’t stop people from writing down their fantasies.” He leaned back in the computer chair, running a hand along his abs in the vain hope that it would attract Buffy’s eye. Though he couldn’t help wondering if BUFFY was into spanking, and if so how he could bring that up again without calling up the dark spectre of Chief Benson in leather in both their minds, because that image made Spike a lot LESS into spanking.

“So all these weird SP- words, they’re all about pairing up different people with you?”

Spike sighed in resignation. “Yes. Yes, they are.”

Buffy’s face was suddenly black with rage, and her hand moved, and Spike recoiled, expecting her fist to crash into the monitor, but all she did was lean down to put her fingers on the keyboard and scroll up and down, perusing the posts. Finally she stood back up with a huff. “All these stories and not one of them is SPUFFY?”

Spike couldn’t help it, he laughed. “More than welcome to write your own stories, love,” he purred, curling his hand around the inside of her thigh. Mmmm, leather. “I will gladly be your muse.” She looked down at him with burning eyes, and he puffed up a bit at the thought that she was actually jealous over him, and he wondered darkly if he could intimidate or bribe or, well, he would go with intimidate (because he was flat broke) the losers who were hanging out in the laundry room on a holiday to clear the fuck out so he could go down on Buffy up against the hot, vibrating dryer, because jealous Buffy was even hotter than dominant Buffy or tender Buffy or pissed-off Buffy – well, maybe it was a tie with dominant Buffy – and the hotter she was the better she tasted and he ran his hand up the inseam of her leather pants and…

There was a cleared throat behind them. “Excuse me, are these yours?” The disgruntled work-study student who had the poor luck to pull holiday duty – probably an orphan, poor sap, Spike shrugged dismissively – stood there holding out Spike’s printouts of “Unbridled Passions” (chapters 23 and 24) and assorted other fanfiction, and Spike had never been so grateful for his lack of circulation, because if he had been human, poncy William would have blushed clear to his collarbone from the humiliation.

Spike snatched the thick stack of perforated printer paper out of the student’s hands, clutching it to his chest and avoiding Buffy’s eyes. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Buffy slid her hands over his shoulders, massaging gently. “Ready to go?”

Spike sullenly logged off his computer. “Yeah.”

When he finally cleared out the laundry room and had her delicious hips pressed up against the whirling dryer that held her bedding – and wasn’t that delicious, the spendings of their past afternoon of passion fueling their current afternoon of passion – he took care to be especially tender and attentive, bringing her to her peak over and over again, until she finally reached her limit and shoved him down and had her way with him on the painted concrete floor, because she didn’t mock him for the fanfiction even once. And that was… Well. That was something.

End Chapter 12

Chapter 12 Author’s Notes

Yeah, I went there. 1999 Usenet. All of us old people can now weep with nostalgia while you young’uns wonder what the fuck a dot-matrix printer is. Technically fanfiction.net existed by this time, but it had yet to reach its heyday, and Usenet newsgroups were still a popular venue for disseminating fanfiction in 1999, because this was Jurassic-speed internet; AOL was still king, and webpages with Actual Pictures took forever to load. I do not know if Passions and Dawson’s Creek actually had fanfiction newsgroups, but if they did, Spike was there. In fandom at the time (or anime fandom at least), pairings (i.e. Spuffy) were not always tagged as such – I am not sure when that practice started – but I have retconned that in for the sake of cheap laughs. “Spike ½” is a crossover with the anime Ranma ½, pairing Spike with the character Akane, who is surprisingly similar to Buffy in many ways. “Lemon” was the codeword in anime fanfiction circles indicating porn. No, I do not plan to write it.

Buffy is playing either Rogue or Moria.

Gratuitous quotes (or near quotes) from: Sesame Street, Dexter (well, visual homage to the opening credits)


	13. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to The Moonmoth for a fabulous beta job! By a Strange Coincidence, she is up for Best Beta at the SunnyD awards this month! You could totally go vote for her, if you were inclined that way.

The comforter was done drying around three, but by then Buffy was the very opposite of dry, and definitely not done, so she dumped the laundry on her unmade bed and snatched up her shower caddy and dragged Spike by the hand down to the communal showers, which were delightfully empty thanks to the holiday.

“Plan on scrubbing my back, Slayer?” Spike grinned at her in that way that said he knew exactly what she had in mind as she tugged his shirt over his head, stuffing it into one of the lockers that lined the room.

Buffy glared at him. “We are not showing up at my mom’s for dinner smelling like…. Smelling like what we’ve been doing for the past hour.” Spike raised an eyebrow. She glanced at her watch. “Okay, two hours.”

Spike obligingly helped her get her turtleneck over her head, running his hands down her sides. “You smell delicious, love.” He leaned in and inhaled deeply. “Like you’ve been done proper.” He ran his tongue across her sweaty bicep.

“Yes, well, let’s not share that fact with my mom, okay?” For all her protests, she was enjoying Spike’s nakedness just as much, leaning in to lick his collarbone as she unfastened his pants. He tasted a bit soapy, powdered detergent residue picked up from the floor of the laundry room gritty and bitter under her tongue. “Let’s get clean.”

When they were both stark naked (except for the goddamn anklets, let’s not forget those, Buffy groused), she took his hands and led him into the shower stall farthest from the door, three high tiled walls with a cheap plastic curtain, and turned the water on as hot as she could stand. Spike squatted down while she was adjusting the water temperature, digging interestedly through the contents of her shower caddy. “D’y’have anything that doesn’t smell like a sodding flower garden?” he grumbled happily, sniffing at Buffy’s shower gel.

“No. I just have girly stuff. Suck it up, Spike.” She looked down at Spike like a queen, letting the water sluice over her.

He looked up at her, and groaned. “Flowers it is,” he muttered, and then her back was up against the cold tile and the water was falling on his back and his hair was dripping and curly, and she kissed him for all she was worth. He tasted like her again, of course he did, after the dryer, and it reminded her of things, naughty thinky thoughts she’d been having, so she poked him gently in the stomach until he pulled back.

“The tile is cold,” she pouted slyly.

“Is it, pet?” He ran his hands up and down her chilled back.

She pushed on his chest until he took a step back, then another, guiding him until he was the one up against the wall, the high showerhead just above him, hot water streaming out onto Buffy’s chest as she stood before him. “Feel for yourself.”

His eyes were almost closed, but he was watching her intently, watching the water running down her body like a river. “I’m always cold,” he said huskily. “Hard to tell the difference.”

Buffy knew it was the cheesiest line in the history of cheese, but she had to say it anyhow. “Let me warm you up, then.” Spike grinned in wry acknowledgment, then his grin faltered, turned to a hiss as she sank to her knees and took his hard cock all the way into her hot mouth.

She couldn’t watch his expression because the shower water was beating onto the top of her head, rivulets running down into her face, but he grunted gratifyingly as she slid her mouth back, giving the head of his cock a little flick with her tongue as she released it. She shifted to the left, a bit out of the spray of water, so she could open her eyes and look at him properly. The light in the showers came from cheap bright fluorescent bulbs, bare and flickering on the ceiling, which made Spike’s skin look paler than ivory, like a marble statue, almost blending in with the white tile behind him except for the dark patch of hair that framed his deliciously curved cock; she thought to herself that he was beautiful, perfect, that he should be immortalized in marble, set in a temple for worship, and for a moment she was afraid, because she wasn’t supposed to be thinking so much about him, so approvingly, but at this moment he was so beautiful, so achingly beautiful, and his beautiful body was completely hers, even if the rest of him wasn’t, she knew he would never argue with that, so she slid back in front of him, letting the water blind her eyes, and began to worship.

With her eyes closed the first thing she noticed was the silkiness of his skin, like wet satin under her tongue. She could feel the bulge of a vein running up the side and traced it from base to tip, then found and traced another, painting on his skin with the barest tip of her tongue, then swooping In to lash her tongue in a long stroke along the underside of his cock, finishing with a lavish swirl around the spongy tip. He gasped at that, one of his big hands lacing into her wet hair, and she grinned right up against him before sliding in for another slash of her tongue.

She loved that Spike was so responsive, that he unabashedly groaned and swore and laughed and murmured endearments as she used her tongue and her mouth and her teeth to play, because this was all so new to her; she could count her Close Encounters of the Penis Kind on the fingers of one hand and have fingers left over, and she was still afraid that she would do something wrong, that she would not be able to compare to stupid ho-bag Drusilla (weren’t crazy people supposed to be fantastic in bed?), but Buffy was nothing if not competitive, and she was having the time of her life finding out where Spike needed tenderness and where he wanted to feel teeth, just the right way to suck on the flaring tip to make him grit out her name in ecstasy (she experimented on this over and over again, because there was something about the way “Buffy” sounded in his voice, all gravelly with desire, that made her shiver like she was cold, even though the water on her back was still good and hot – thank God for industrial-sized hot water heaters!), not to mention all the interesting places her hands could wander while her mouth was taking care of the main event, until she had memorized the territory of his body from waist to knees like she was expecting a pop quiz the next day.

But there were limits, she was discovering, to how much of Spike’s cock her jaw was able to take, and so she rose up a little on her knees and unleashed a brilliant combo attack, swirling her tongue delicately around his engorged head and firmly sliding one hand up and down his shaft while her other hand reached around and traced a straight, inexorable line down from the small of his back along his tailbone and right into the crack of his ass, pressing lightly, and he convulsed and shouted “GOD, Buffy!” as he came in her mouth and on her face, and she just tilted her head back and let the shower wash it all away as he yanked her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her, shaking and shuddering and whispering sweet words, making her feel like the most beautiful, powerful, sexy woman in the universe. Which you’d think would be the status quo for someone whose job description was Chosen-One-comma-The, but was a far cry from her uncertain, insecure reality. Most of the time she just felt like that girl in the movies, the side character who didn’t get the guy because of stupid Molly Ringwald, even though she was pretty and fun and nice, because she just wasn’t The One.

With Spike’s hands clutching at her back, his lips murmuring nonsense into her hair, she felt completely Chosen, for something more than death.

But her knees were twinging now – probably all waffle-patterned from the square grouted tile of the shower floor – and she did want to get clean eventually, so when Spike relaxed his arms a bit she untangled herself and bent down to get her shampoo.

“Give us that, kitten,” Spike said softly, and she let him shampoo her hair, because he really was good at it, his fingers massaging all the right spots on her skull, and then she returned the favor by scrubbing his hair – arms aching a bit because he was just that little bit taller than her – and then she deployed the loofah mitt, which Spike was fascinated by – he claimed not to have seen one before – and he was either getting better at lying or he was a loofah prodigy, because in minutes he had her hot and panting again, pressing him back against the tile wall and climbing his body to take him inside, his hand in the mitt scratchy on her ass as she pulsed up and down. She took a moment to be grateful that the cheap, gritty industrial tile here had far better traction than Giles’s tub, because Spike’s feet didn’t slip once, even with all the soap and steam and defying the laws of physics. She really didn’t want a concussion. Concussions were not sexy.

He had reversed their positions and was rocking her hard against the wall when he suddenly froze, loofah-hand rigid on her thigh, his other coming up to cover her mouth mid-groan. She froze instinctively too, staring down into his blue eyes and trying to hear over the rush of the shower, and then she heard it too.

A giggle.

Then the unmistakable sound of the door opening.

There were two of them, that was obvious, though they clammed up as soon as they came in the door, apparently not any happier to have company than Buffy and Spike; Buffy could hear just enough to know that there was whispering, possibly a little bit of an argument, then another giggle, and the rustle of a curtain and the sound of another shower turning on.

Just one shower.

Spike’s teeth flashed in a grin and he started to move again, silently, hand still clamped over her mouth, and then he removed his hand, eyes daring her, and started trying to make her scream, employing his fingers and his teeth and that damnable loofah mitt until she was gritting her teeth and glaring down at him even as her body demanded more, aware of the murmurs and splashes and scrubby sounds coming from the other stall, and finally she gave up and let herself make some noise, not screaming of course but some gasps and grunts, because she was not meant for quiet sex and it’s not like the other couple didn’t know exactly what was going on in here anyhow, they were obviously here for the exact same reason, so they could deal with it or leave. Spike was laughing silently against her throat, showing no mercy, and it pissed her off, that he wasn’t the tiniest bit embarrassed, so she bore down hard, clenching tight around him, and his head flew back and his eyes flew wide, and she could feel him throbbing as he came inside her, and after the initial shock he narrowed his eyes and used the remaining momentum of his orgasm to drive her hard into the wall, so hard a few tiles dislodged and plinked down to the floor, and she laughed and came around him, not caring that people could hear, because decrepit dorm architecture was just not built to withstand superhero sex. Point to solid-stone mausoleums.

Spike’s face was smug as he lowered her legs tenderly to the floor, giving her a final, gentle scrub with the soft back of the loofah mitt between her trembling thighs, and she leaned her forehead against him for a moment, embarrassment rushing in full force now that the lust was banked. She gave him a little punch in the stomach, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to let him know she was Not Amused, though she supposed later on she might find it funny, and after a final cleanliness check, she turned off the water and jerked her head at Spike to tell him to gather up the shower supplies, while she picked up the fallen tiles and carefully placed them back where they belonged, poking them into their frames of grout. Maybe nobody would notice.

The other shower was still going, though the voices had quieted, and Buffy hoped that meant they were planning on staying a while, so she tugged their towels off the hooks outside the stall, wrapped hers around her chest snugly, glaring at Spike to tell him to stay put, and also to get his towel on, because he was just standing there all naked and showoff-y, and they were going to be late if temptation won again. He rolled his eyes at her, which she took as him getting the picture, and she slipped quietly out of the shower stall, tugging the curtain mostly closed behind her.

She came face to face with Willow.

Willow’s hair was wet and tangled, her eyes big and round like moons; she was wrapped tightly in a brightly-colored beach towel, all pineapples and fishies, and her hand was frozen on the bottle of shampoo she had evidently forgotten on the bench. She stared at Buffy like she was an alien.

Buffy could not think of a single thing to say. Except she realized if she didn’t say something, Spike was going to just follow her out of the shower stall, and she was SO not ready to explain any of this to Willow, so she smiled brilliantly, dazzlingly, and pretended nothing at all was out of the ordinary.

“Hi, Willow! Fancy meeting you here!”

Willow’s eyes darted over her shoulder, to the half-closed shower-curtain – Buffy clenched her teeth in her grin, hoping Spike hadn’t decided to poke his head out – and then nervously flicked her eyes back to Buffy’s face, plastering on a fakeity-fake smile of her own. “Hi Buffy! This is certainly a surprise!”

Buffy glanced then at Willow’s shower, which was still running, the water very definitely splashing off a body, not just hitting the floor. “Yep. Sure is!”

They kept grinning at each other, the desperate grins of the mutually busted.

“So!” Buffy finally said, tugging at the hem of her towel. “Winter break, huh? I guess you’ve got plans.”

“You too!” Willow said brightly. “All sorts of Christmas-y things.”

“And you with the Hanukkah things.” Buffy knew that somewhere in her brain she knew some actual facts about Hanukkah, but she felt lucky to remember the name of the holiday under the circumstances. Oh wait, dreidel, clay, something something… but the moment had passed. Willow was nodding frantically.

“Yep. Lots of… things.” Now they were both nodding along with the smiling. Nodding and smiling. Nodding and smiling.

Oh God, if Buffy didn’t get out of here she was going to die. “So. I was heading over to my mom’s house in a bit. Just, you know, picking up my things from the dorm room.”

Willow nodded in relief. “I, uh… I just need to finish up here. I think it’ll take me at least twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes. Gotcha.” Wow, they were both so subtle. Masters of subterfuge.

Willow turned a bit redder. “Maybe thirty.”

“Well. I think it’s safe to say I’ll be on my way by then.” Buffy rushed out. “Promised my mom I’d be home by five. I’m, um… I’m all done here.” She could have sworn she heard a faint snort from behind her.

Willow’s wide eyes showed that she was very well aware of just how done Buffy was, though her smile didn’t waver. “So, I’ll see you at the Scooby meeting?”

“You betcha!” Buffy’s face was starting to hurt from all the smiling.

Willow stood there for a moment longer, shifting awkwardly on her bare feet, before lifting her head in resolution. “So. I’m going to go take my shower. For at least thirty more minutes.”

Buffy nodded in we-are-not-going-to-ever-mention-this-again solidarity. “See you tonight!”

Willow nodded and firmly headed back towards her running shower, which might or might not contain a mysterious lover. (As long as Buffy never asked, she didn’t have to admit it, right? Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was a motto she was suddenly firmly in favor of.)

As soon as Willow’s shower curtain rustled back into place, Buffy rushed back to her own stall, where Spike was lounging up against the tile wall, towel tied low on his hips, face darkly amused. Buffy gave him a fierce glare, putting a finger on his lips to tell him to keep his smartass mouth shut, and dragged him out of the shower, grabbing their clothes and the shower caddy on the way, rushing down the hall to their dorm room, where she fell against the door, starting to hyperventilate.

“Oh. My. God.” Buffy shook as she shoved Spike’s clothes at him so he could get dressed in the shadowed alcove of the doorway. “I cannot believe we almost got caught by Willow and her new boyfriend.”

Spike looked at her oddly. “Boyfriend?”

“Well, duh! Even I could tell she had someone with her in the shower!” Buffy paced the room, red in the light of the sunset, fastening her bra. “And she told me they were only at Snugglebunny Stage Three!”

Now Spike was looking at her like she was insane. “What the hell are you on about?”

Buffy let out an inarticulate moan, wriggling into a fresh pair of panties. “That’s, like, just first base. I don’t even know what number showering together is. Five? Six?” She frowned. “Maybe five-and-a-half? We didn’t put showers on the scale!”

“Slayer, are you completely off your bird?”

Buffy stomped up to him, shaking her sweater in his face. “WILLOW JUST HEARD US HAVING HOT SHOWER SEX!”

Spike shrugged, stepping into his jeans. “So?”

“SO?!?” Buffy yanked her sweater over her head, tugging her wet hair out above the cowl neck. “So Willow totally knows!”

Spike turned his back to her, sullenly fastening his pants. “And what’s so bad about that?”

Buffy gasped like a goldfish, searching for words, but she couldn’t find any.

With a muttered curse, Spike yanked his shirt over his head, back rigid. “Right. Can’t have the Slayer’s friends know she’s sullying her perfect purity, rolling in the dirt with the likes of me.”

That sounded… not right. “That’s not it.”

“Isn’t it?” Spike’s voice was hard. He turned slowly, leaning back against the door, Buffy’s ‘Chocolate’ poster incongruously cheery behind his dark expression. “Plan on sharing the news at tonight’s Scooby meeting, do you?”

Buffy firmed up her lips. “Is that what you want? You want to be my official boyfriend, be one of the Scooby gang? Go on double dates with Xander and Anya?”

Spike glanced off to the side, scoffing. “Hardly.” He patted at his pockets, absently, as if he just needed something to do, finally tugging out his flask.

“Well then. What DO you want?” Buffy crossed her arms, tapping her bare foot impatiently.

Spike glanced up at her guardedly, then away, taking a swig. “Dunno.”

“You don’t know.” Buffy sighed. “That makes two of us.” The furious energy that had been crackling between them faded suddenly, and she deflated, pulling on her leather pants. They finished dressing in silence, finally sitting beside each other on the floor to pull on their shoes, backs against the door.

“The witch won’t talk,” Spike said suddenly, tugging at the laces of his boots.

“No, she probably won’t,” Buffy agreed quietly. “Willow’s good that way.” She suddenly sagged against him, rubbing her cheek into his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I really overreacted, didn’t I?”

Spike shrugged. “A bit.” His voice was gruff, but Buffy thought he sounded secretly pleased at her concession.

“We still good?” Buffy’s voice came out small, which kind of pissed her off, but she never knew how to come back after a fight. Not like her parents had ever shown her a good example. Fights were all about endings, about tearing things down. She knew you were supposed to rebuild after, but how?

Spike rubbed his nose into her hair. “Suppose so. Good as we can be, what with me being so evil and all.”

Buffy laughed a little at that, leaning into him, and then lifting her face to his so he could kiss her properly, sealing the truce, though Buffy couldn’t help feeling it was just a band-aid, not enough to really fix things.

But then, she really didn’t know what they were trying to fix.

“Ready to bring me home to mum?” Spike said cheekily, elbowing her.

Buffy thunked her head against the door, which was surprisingly squishy. Oh yeah, the hole. What a cheap-ass door. It would probably not be cheap at all to replace. “No. God, what are we going to tell her?”

Spike looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling. “That you just can’t resist my sinister charms and she should buy some earplugs?” He rolled easily to his feet.

“Definitely not.” Buffy took his offered hand and let him pull her up. “Think she’d buy the Criminal Justice class thing?”

Spike gave her a wry look. “Nobody has so far. Philosophy prof just let it go because I’m such a charming fellow.”

“Oh, yes. Very charming.” Buffy tossed him her bag of undies and hefted the basket of dirty laundry, leaving the comforter and sheets heaped on the bare mattress. She could make the bed later. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

Spike held the door for her, which was necessary since she needed both hands for the laundry, but he had a look on his face when he did it that kind of made her want to smack him. Except he probably wanted her to want to smack him, which made her want to NOT smack him, just to show him who was boss. Except smacking him would also show him who was boss. Dammit.

She settled for kissing him again.

\---

Short winter days were one of those things Buffy usually resented, because of the longer patrols and also, vampires and commuters? Not a good combination. Today, though, she was intensely grateful for the 4:50 sunset, because instead of racing from the nearest sewer entrance to the back door of her home and arriving with Spike slightly charred, they were able to walk at a normal pace, enjoy the twilight. Not to mention, it allowed them both to work on getting the laundry basket through the manhole, because it was just a hair too big for the opening and took some maneuvering. But they got it through without warping the plastic basket too much or losing anything, and then Buffy made Spike carry the basket the rest of the way while she carried the bag so that she had a hand free to rub along his back – the green shirt was really soft, she had to ask him what detergent he used, and it was totally the softness that made her want to keep touching him, really it was. They made it to the house just enough after five that her mom would think everything was peachy-keen-normal. (Arriving on time would have been like taking out an ad on the front page of the Mom Gazette: “Wayward Daughter Has Bad News for Local Mother!”)

Buffy’s mom was in the kitchen chopping something when they came in, from the sound of it, so they dumped their loads at the base of the stairs and Buffy headed on back. Spike loitered a bit, stopping in the doorway; Buffy suspected it was because of the huge chef’s knife her mom was wielding.

“Hey Mom!” she bubbled cheerfully, sliding around the island for a hug. Best to lay on the sugar thick and early, because this was not going to be fun.

Joyce hugged her back, but gave her that Mom look that said she was totally not fooled and hadn’t forgotten a thing about their earlier conversation. “Hey sweetie,” she said gently, then looked up at Spike. “Hello, Spike. It’s been quite a while.”

“Yes, yes it has,” Spike agreed, lounging against the doorframe. Buffy kind of thought his soft smile looked genuine. “You’re looking well.” There was an undertone to his voice that was almost… flirtatious? Like what he was really saying was that Buffy’s mom looked gorgeous. Buffy couldn’t decide whether to feel horrified or jealous.

Joyce rolled her eyes at the flattery, but Buffy thought there might be a hint of a blush on her cheeks. Oh God, was her mother falling for Spike’s lines? How come Buffy was the only woman who saw through him? Except that wasn’t true either, because despite knowing more than she wanted to know about him, she was actually the one least able to resist him. Hell, even Anya thought he was attractive. Was anyone of the interested-in-men persuasion immune to Spike’s sinister attraction?

Willow. Willow was doing a great job of resisting Spike. Good old reliable Willow. She had even worn Spike’s leather coat, which probably smelled just like him, like cigarettes and whiskey and sex and danger, and she had been able to just hand it back to him and walk away like it was nothing.

Dammit, Willow was good at everything.

Joyce had resumed chopping – bell peppers, so it was probably a spaghetti night. The glass of red wine on the counter confirmed it. “So, how are your classes going?”

So they were doing the small talk first. That was a relief. Maybe Mom would be so charmed by Spike she wouldn’t ask about the guest room thing. “Good, I think,” Buffy answered, snatching up a chunk of bell pepper and popping it in her mouth. “I have a paper to write for Psychology.”

“Uh-huh. And Philosophy?”

Buffy made a mental note that the Criminal Justice thing was no longer an option, because her mom obviously had her courses memorized. “Really well. We just learned about… some cave thing.”

“Plato’s Theory of Forms,” Spike supplied helpfully. Buffy glared at him because he wasn’t supposed to look like he knew more about her college classes than she did. Even if he did. She made a mental note to have him explain the Plato thing to her later.

Joyce nodded. “And the slaying?”

“Injury-free!” Buffy chirped.

Her mom kept chopping. “And the police?”

Buffy snagged another pepper. “They keep following us, but I must be some kind of criminal genius, because…. Oh.” Buffy caught herself, just too late. Stupid parental interrogation techniques! The SPD WISHED they had someone as sneaky and devious as her mom.

Joyce had turned and was leaning against the island, wiping her hands off with a towel. “The officer who stopped by earlier this afternoon was very interested in searching your room.”

“Mom, I…”

“Not the Slayer’s fault, Joyce.” Spike interjected, looking apologetic. Buffy looked at him in disbelief. “She’s just helping me out of a tight spot.” Where did that humble tone of voice come from? And when exactly did they slide into Bizarro-world?

Joyce ignored Spike. “Buffy, what is going on?”

“Mom, you didn’t let them search my room, did you?” She didn’t think there was anything there that they could use against her, but still…

“Of course not. They didn’t have a warrant.” Joyce gave her a Look. “I already know the Sunnydale Police have some… issues.”

“Let’s look on the bright side!” Buffy tried valiantly. “At least this time I’m not wanted for murder!”

From the look on her mom’s face, Buffy could tell that was absolutely not the right joke to have made. Joyce gave a little huff of a laugh. “No, but you are apparently MARRIED!”

Oh. Oh GOD. Buffy looked at Spike desperately, and he was suddenly at her mother’s side, handing her the glass of wine. “Perhaps we should start at the beginning,” he said smoothly, in that soothing voice that was obviously as effective on mad women as it was on madwomen, because Joyce took the wine glass and nodded, allowing Spike to guide her to the living room and seat her on the couch. Buffy trailed behind as Spike seated himself next to Joyce, face solicitous. BIZARRO-WORLD.

Joyce took a sip of her wine, then smiled girlishly at Spike, face embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I really overreacted, didn’t I?”

Buffy hid her face in her hands, sinking into the side chair. Oh, God. She really was just like her mother.

Spike took her mother’s hand in both of his, face earnest. “Not at all, Joyce.” Buffy pouted at that, glaring at him, because he was being nicer to her mom than he had been to her. Though at least he was on her side here.

“It’s just… the police, and they were SO determined…” Joyce took another sip of wine, eyes a bit teary. Buffy frowned. Was her mom flirting back now?

Spike nodded sympathetically. “It’s all my fault, love.” He patted Joyce’s hand gently.

Joyce gave him a watery smile. “I’m sure that’s not the case,” she said sweetly. She WAS flirting! Buffy watched in horror as her mom made goo-goo eyes at her evil vampire lover. And wait, if her mom was sure that it wasn’t Spike’s fault, was she sure it was Buffy’s fault then? How unfair was that!

But Spike gave a weary sigh. “I’m afraid it is, Joyce. I’m a bad, rude man.” And he proceeded to tell her mother the TRUTH. The whole thing.

Except for the sex.

It ended up being a very short tale indeed.

The funny thing was, he somehow told it in a way that made Buffy look like a hero. Nobly masquerading as his wife to get him released from prison. Waking up before dawn every morning to help him with his civic duty. Finding a way to shield him from the sunlight. Enduring unfair imprisonment on his behalf. Protecting him from the harassment of the SPD. And through all this, still performing her Sacred Duty as the Slayer, saving the populace of Sunnydale from the ravages of the supernatural.

By the time he got to the end, lamenting the cruel fate that bound the Slayer to within a fifty-foot radius of an unworthy, depraved creature of the night – his own bad, rude self – Buffy was practically in tears herself. Because even though she knew Spike was, maybe not lying, but certainly manipulating the truth to his own ends, it still made her feel good, appreciated. Seen. And, well, she knew her mom loved her, always, but it was that mom-love that came mixed with a hefty dose of exasperation and frustration, that didn’t always see the heroic bits through the missed chores and muddy boots.

And then he turned to her and winked, face wicked, and she sniffled and glared at him, because she hated feeling like this, all mushy and vulnerable and exposed. He was such a jerk.

And also, she was going to kill him if she found out about any Spoyce fanfiction later.

\---

Spike was pretty sure he deserved another blowjob after the way he had talked Joyce around, but Buffy was giving him pouty glares instead, obviously pissed off once again, and so he just drank the wine Joyce poured him and ate a little spaghetti and glared back at Buffy when Joyce wasn’t looking and wondered whether he would have better luck turning Buffy up sweet again, trying for the blowjob (because CHRIST Buffy had a talented mouth on her) or ramping up the annoyingness in hopes of a good hard grudge-fuck on the way to the Watcher’s flat.

Then he noticed her surreptitiously rubbing her jaw like it was sore. All right then. Grudge-fuck was the lucky winner.

So he turned his charm on Joyce instead, asking her questions about her gallery of antiquities, laughing appreciatively at her jokes, topping off her glass of wine before it got too empty. Pretending to ignore Buffy’s glares and impatiently tapping fingers, when it seemed all he could smell was her, her pores leaking fury, her fury feeding her arousal, the scent of her luscious wet quim wafting around the table…. God. He knew a thing or two about survival, but if he didn’t know from experience that Joyce would take an axe to him, he would already have been balls-deep in Buffy right there on the dining room table, licking spaghetti sauce off her chest, risk or no, because the smell of her wanting him, coupled with the passion and fury in her eyes, was making his toes curl. And he wasn’t even touching her.

But eventually the dinner ended, Joyce bashfully refusing his offer to wash the dishes (made as much to enrage Buffy as to help her mother), and he and Buffy were able to head out the door for the short walk to Giles’s flat.

Tragically Buffy did not jump him under the tree in front of her house, or behind that convenient bush the next block over, or at all in fact, just stomping along muttering under her breath, which was a waste of all that lovely anger if you asked him, but he was a flexible fellow, able to adapt to changing circumstances, so he simply slowed his pace a bit and started singing. It was a bleeding shame, how Buffy didn’t appreciate the classics, but perhaps he could bring her around. Woman with that much passion had to have a little punk in her somewhere. In the meantime, he figured a few choruses of “Sheena Is a Punk Rocker” would get something out of Buffy, an explosion of lust or an explosion of violence or maybe just an irritated hand in his to get him to move his ass, and he was in favor of any of the above. ALL of the above, if he could. Though if he had to choose just one… it would have to be the hand. Definitely the hand.

God, he was whipped.

He kept singing. Christ, would she just hold his hand already? It was RIGHT THERE. And he was doing a masterful job of lollygagging, too.

But when she finally cracked, it was none of the above.

She just turned to him and stood in the middle of the sidewalk, hands on her hips, eyes steady.

“What was all that back there?”

Spike glanced behind him automatically. “What was all what back where?” He gave her a saucy grin.

“You were hitting on my mom!” Buffy glanced away. “With the wine and the goo-goo eyes.”

He shrugged. “Thought it was what you wanted. Turn your mum up sweet.”

“Be nice and polite, yes, but you went way overboard!” Buffy started pacing. “What if she thinks you’re serious? What if she decides to sneak in and visit you in the guest room for late-night nooky?”

“Buffy, your mum doesn’t want me. I’m not her type.”

“But you totally are! With the smoking and the music and the handcuffs…”

Holy fuck. “Handcuffs?” He oozed closer to Buffy. “Do tell.”

Buffy’s eyes widened with horror. “Not my handcuffs! Hers! And there will be no telling! No telling about Mom and Giles and the handcuffs!” Her hand flew up to her mouth. “Oh God, I told! Forget everything I just said.”

“Gladly,” Spike lied, filing away the Buffy + Handcuffs ideas for later. The police were always hanging about, maybe he could nick a pair… He traced his fingers along her stomach, words he couldn’t say. “Wasn’t chatting up your mum.”

“You so were. She was all giggly and… you laughed at her art gallery jokes.”

“Amphorae are funny. Just listen to the word.” He leaned in to her ear. “AM-PHO-RAE.” He used his deadliest, sexist voice, tried to give it a little fuck-me-now subtextual oomph, because those handcuff images just wouldn’t stay filed away, and thus ‘explosion of lust’ had just come from behind and left ‘hold my hand’ in the dust, and conveniently there was a likely tree not ten feet away. Good and sturdy, plenty of screening foliage.

Then Buffy’s hands were twisted in his shirt and his eyes nearly rolled back in his head from anticipation of whatever she was about to unleash on his body, but instead of punching him or kissing him, she just looked him in the eyes, and her eyes were glittering and damp, and her lower lip was wrenched up miserably, and Spike could see she was on the edge of something, but whatever it was, it wasn’t any of the somethings he had been hoping for, it was something else, something completely unknown. Uncharted territory.

And he just had to give her a push.

He curled his tongue behind his teeth and met her wet eyes insolently. “Jealous, luv?” he purred.

And there, she was falling, he could see it in her eyes, they were wide with realization, and he knew she was going to kill him right there, but then she stepped back, eyes shuttered, and let go of his shirt. “Yes,” she muttered, looking at the sidewalk.

Spike had no words. And he ALWAYS had words. Often the wrong ones, but still.

Buffy glared up at him. “You’re a big fat jerk.”

“I’m not fat,” Spike said, but gently. “And as for the BIG…”

“Can it, Spike!” Buffy bit out. “That was the most awful meal of my life. And you were there at Thanksgiving, so you know how exactly bad it was.” She looked up at him sullenly through damp eyelashes. “Don’t flirt with my mom in front of me. It sucks.”

Spike looked at her, afraid to reach out. “Wasn’t really flirting. Was just… conversing.” He looked down at the sidewalk, the grass off to the side. “Like you do with mums.” Except he had been ignoring Buffy, on purpose, to make her mad, and now it didn’t seem like such a good idea after all. Fuck, this was HARD. He had all sorts of glib apologies on the tip of his tongue, the sort of thing that worked fine with other vampires, who didn’t need sincerity, or Drusilla, who just wanted adoration, but he didn’t know how to apologize to Buffy and make it stick. And he was kind of pissed off now himself, because he shouldn’t fucking need to worry about how to fucking apologize. “Sorry,” he managed, wishing he had time to go rehearse something better. Something poetic.

Buffy curled into her coat, wrapping it around herself more tightly. “Seriously, were you trying to piss me off?”

“Well, yeah,” Spike admitted grouchily. “You’re fucking hot when you’re angry.” He looked up at her now, feeling the absolute truth of that statement, because even now, the WANT inside him was nearly incandescent. No, especially now.

Buffy gave a short, bitter laugh. “So what you’re saying is that you were flirting with my mom, because you knew it would make me angry, and that was some twisted way of flirting with me.” She looked at him with scorn. “God, you’re bent.”

“Yeah?” Spike lashed out then, took her hips in his hands and pulled her close to look into her eyes. “Yeah. I am. It’s what you like best about me.” He held her gaze as one hand slid down her stomach to delve beneath her black leather pants, gliding over her damp panties. Her breathing accelerated, but she kept her eyes open, defiantly locked on his. Fuck, she was glorious. He rubbed the wet fabric against her, then slid a long finger past the panties, deep into her pulsing quim. “Gets you all worked up. All wet and delicious.” He was walking her backwards, his arm around her back to support her, until they were under the tree, screened from casual sight by the shrubs. She fell against the trunk with a gasp, eyes blinking closed. “Look at me,” he said harshly, and she opened her eyes again, bare inches from his. He added another finger, sliding in and out, the heel of his hand firm against her, and she glared at him but still moved her hips against his hand, urgently. He could feel her hot breath on his lips, stuttering and broken. “You crave my darkness,” he gritted out. “It turns you on. Drives you wild.” He twisted his fingers inside her, pressing just THERE, and she let out a little ‘oh!’ of surprise and pleasure. He grinned at her. “Makes you scream.” Her eyes were wide now, and he let himself soften a little, lifting his head to press a kiss to her forehead. “You crave my darkness just like I crave your light,” he whispered, low enough that he could probably deny it if she decided to make it an issue, though he could tell by the way she shook at his words that she had heard, and he was terrified, terrified, because it was more of a confession than he was ready for, and he braced himself for rejection even as his fingers kept moving inside her, even as she bowed her head against his chest and jerked her hips in violent rhythm with him and took his free hand in hers and pressed it to her quivering chin, fingers twined together between them like a promise. He curled his head down over hers, fluttering tender kisses along the crown of her head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair, and I love you, he didn’t say, and when she came apart under his fingers he nudged her chin up with their tangled hands so he could sip the tears from her cheeks and kiss her trembling lips, and when she stopped shaking he was going to step back to give Buffy plenty of room for the staking, because surely he had pushed her too far this time, but she was still clinging to his hand, and he was bloody well not going to be the one to let go, so instead he kissed her knuckles one by one and tenderly tugged her panties back into place – though they were drenched and there wasn’t much to be done about that, here and now – and traced poetry on her stomach with his damp fingers, and waited for her to be done with him.

Finally she sighed and looked up at him, jaw determined. “How the hell did you manage to live more than a hundred years pulling stupid crap like that?”

Spike blinked, taking aback by the distinct lack of staking that was going on. Then he narrowed his eyes. “Did you just call me stupid?”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “No, I think deliberately pissing me off as a strategy for getting laid was a BRILLIANT plan. One of your finest.” She turned and started to walk down the sidewalk, tugging him along by the hand. As if nothing had happened.

Well, Spike could play that game too, and he fell in beside her, gladly arguing in defense of his own intelligence and strategic skills. And, well, he did have some very important proof to back himself up.

Because stupid or not, he wasn’t dust yet.

And also, she was holding his hand.

That’s right, he thought smugly, putting a bit more swagger in his step as they argued. Who’s stupid now?

 

END CHAPTER 13

Chapter 13 Author’s Notes:

According to www.timeanddate.com, sunset in Sunnyvale, CA on 12/10/99 was 4:50 pm, allowing plenty of time for Spike and Buffy to get from the sewer to her house. Yay internet!

I desperately wanted to work a Schrödinger’s Shower joke into the Uncomfortable Shower Conversation, but Buffy would never think a physics joke. Ever. I may be able to fit it in later, but just in case, I’m making it here, so it doesn’t get lost.


	14. Intoxication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plotty chapter for you. (15 will be good and smutty, so hold your horses, buckaroos!)
> 
> Thanks are once again due to the Best Beta Ever, The Moonmoth, who fixed my shady pseudo-science so it actually vaguely resembles real science. (Any remaining scientific errors/implausibilities are entirely my fault, and are there for the sake of future shameless humor and/or smut.)

Xander lay on his hide-a-bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling of his basement lair.

He had to think of it as a lair, because otherwise he was just living in his parents’ basement, and that wasn’t good at all. Especially with parents like his. Basements were where guys without futures hung out. Basements were where dreams ended.

Lairs, though. Lairs were cool.

Anya was snuggled up to him, warm and soft and naked after a glorious afternoon of day-off sex, and that helped him out a lot with the lair ambience, because guys living in their parents’ basements usually didn’t have gorgeous girlfriends who went in for uninhibited, imaginative monkey-loving for hours on end despite it being on a hide-a-bed next to a laundry machine with the ever-present danger of falling hardware. Anya was… Well. He didn’t really know what Anya was, except that she was inexplicably infatuated with him, Xander Harris, and he was starting to think he might be infatuated back, because she was in his head all the time, and what was up with that?

He was, sadly, used to demons having the hots for him. That was the way things tended to go for Mr. Xander Harris, Esquire. He just wasn’t used to them being… terrific. Loving. Down with the not trying to kill him. That was not the path demons-inexplicably-besotted-with-Xander tended to go. He held Anya a bit tighter, inhaling the incredible scent of her shampoo. He was still a little worried now and then, half expecting her to rip off his head instead of curling up for post-coital canoodling, but he was at the point where even that fear just gave the sex a little extra spice.

Not that it needed it. Whoa mama.

It was almost time to get up and get ready for the Scooby meeting, and he was totally ready for that, completely on-board with Scoobying whatever needed to be Scoobed, but something wasn’t right, and he stared at the cracks in the ceiling, brow furrowed, and held on to Anya for dear life, and tried to puzzle it out, Willow’s voice from the night before echoing through his head.

_Get over yourself, Xander. Buffy’s having a rough time._

Well, he knew that. She was literally shackled to the Evil Undead, after all. That would make anyone testy. Except Buffy didn’t look testy. She looked… He shied away from that thought.

_Don’t make a big deal out of it. Let Buffy have some fun for once._

Okay, that one kind of hurt, because Buffy was hanging out with him and Willow all the time, and if that wasn’t fun, what was? Except… Buffy had been kind of down since Angel had left. There was fun, and there was fun, and she hadn’t had FUN fun for a long time. The kind of fun you didn’t get from your best buds. The kind of fun he had with Anya. All Buffy’s recent forays into FUN fun had ended badly, at least the ones he was aware of, and, well, she deserved some fun in her life if anyone did. It was just that Buffy wasn’t supposed to have FUN fun with people he didn’t like.

But she always went for guys he didn’t like. And maybe part of the problem was that he just didn’t like guys that Buffy went for, on general principle. Which was a whole other thing he wasn’t going to unpack, because he had enough baggage on his plate as it was, and Willow-in-his-head still had a lot to say.

_I know it’s hard. But… sometimes people don’t do what you expect of them. You need to accept Buffy’s choices. Even if you don’t understand them._

That was a hard one. Really hard. Because it wasn’t so long ago that he was still hoping Buffy would choose HIM, Xander Harris, master of the cool basement lair. Not long ago at all. But there had been something in Willow’s eyes when she talked about accepting people’s choices… God. He could never resist Willow. She had those eyes that just brought him back to kindergarten and how she had cried the first time he met her about that broken yellow crayon – he could still remember WHY she had cried, that was how much her tears meant – and he remembered even as a five-year-old wanting to make sure she never ever cried again. She’d had that same kind of desperation in her eyes last night, broken-yellow-crayon desperation, and while he didn’t think it was about Spike, he could tell it was about something, and he wanted to step up to the plate and take that punch for her and fall on his sword and whatever other mixed-metaphorical thing he needed to do, just to make sure Willow didn’t cry over the grownup equivalent of a broken yellow crayon.

But Spike.

SPIKE.

What the hell?

He must have said something out loud, because Anya nuzzled into his throat and whispered, “What about Spike?”

Xander sighed, but he knew Anya by now, she wasn’t the type to let things go, she hated when she didn’t know things, so he smooched the top of her head and said, “I don’t get the thing with Buffy and Spike.”

“Oh.” Anya nuzzled in closer. “They’re having sex.”

“They’re NOT.” Xander clutched at Anya’s back. “They’re just pretending to. So Buffy doesn’t have to go to jail. I thought we talked about this, the whole pretend-husband-and-wife-means-not-real-sex thing.”

“We did.” Anya rubbed her cheek against his chest. “But they are. Having sex. It’s obvious.”

Xander closed his eyes in denial. “How is it obvious?”

Anya lifted her head, tracing patterns on his chest. He opened his eyes to meet hers. “She was touching him all the time last night.” Her face was earnest.

“She’s always touches him all the time. Usually with her fist.”

“Not like last night.”

Xander grimaced. “Anya, I know being human is new to you…”

Anya thumped her fist against his bicep. “Living like a human is new, but I’ve been watching humans for more than a thousand years. I know how people touch people they’re boinking.” She pouted into his chest. “I hate it when you do that.”

“Sorry,” Xander muttered. He _was_ sorry, because he could feel it, feel how every so often he opened his mouth and his father’s voice came rushing out, always finding fault, but he didn’t know how to stop it. He didn’t want to be his father. He wanted to be his own man. But then he opened his big fat Xander mouth, and presto! Instant Mr. Harris, Senior, with Bitter Judgmental Action! (Worst. Action figure. Ever.)

“Anyhow, that’s how Buffy touched Spike.” Anya had already moved on. She was good that way. (Seriously, demons completely aside, most normal human girls would be all about the decapitation after a good dose of Xander’s dad.)

“I don’t… I don’t think she touched Spike that much. He was macking all over her, yeah, but she only touched him when she was pretending. Because the police were watching.”

Anya tossed back her hair. “I don’t think it was because of the police.” She sat up suddenly. “We can make a bet!”

Xander looked up at her, confused. She was saying things he didn’t want to hear, but on the other hand, she was naked, and… well. WELL. “A bet?”

“Well, maybe not a bet…” Anya thought for a moment. “We can play a game!” Xander’s face must have accurately reflected his lack of comprehension, because she looked down at him playfully and clarified, “A drinking game. That’s what grownups do, right? When something happens a lot and they want to keep track of it in an amusing and ironic way?”

Anya’s breasts were all Xander could think about at the moment. “I guess so.” That sounded… not quite right, but he was basically okay with anything Anya said right about now, because breasts.

Anya took Xander by the shoulders and pushed him down, excited. “You watch Buffy, and I’ll watch Spike. You have to take a drink every time Buffy touches Spike, and I’ll take a drink every time Spike touches Buffy, okay?”

Xander looked up at her. “Okay,” he breathed. Oh, God, he WAS infatuated with her. Besotted. Because what the hell was he agreeing to?

Anya curled in closer to him, face shy. “So, can we still have sex after the Scooby meeting?”

“Um… yes?”

“I mean, when you’re drunk. I want to get permission now, because once you get drunk, I can’t ask any more.”

“Oh.” That sort of made sense.

“You can have sex with me,” Anya said helpfully. “Even if I’m a little drunk. Though I don’t think I’m going to be as drunk as you.” She smiled brilliantly. “I’m going to win!”

“Okay then.” Maybe he was drunk now.

“Alcohol makes my skin all tingly and hot,” Anya went on. “I think it would make sex even better. But let me tell you, after a few hundred ladies have called you down to wreak vengeance on guys who took advantage of their inebriated state? You develop a lot of respect for consent.” She kissed Xander on the nose. “So I wanted you to know you have my consent well ahead of time. Just in case.”

Xander looked up at her, at the gorgeous ex-demon who actually wanted to make love to him and not rip off his head before, during, or afterwards, and smiled. He knew it was just a goofy Xander-smile, but the way she looked down at him made him feel like it was a sexy Fabio-smile, the kind that could sell a million packages of fake butter. “We could also have sex now,” he suggested in a low voice. The sort of voice one would expect of a man who had a lair.

Anya was all over that.

\---

Spike wasn’t one to wonder about how his vampire body managed to simulate so many of the functions of the human body without blood flow – it was enough for him that he could fight and fuck and recover inhumanly fast, that nicotine and alcohol altered his consciousness pleasantly, and that he didn’t have to worry about annoying shite like blushing and diarrhoea – but when he and Buffy walked in the front door of Giles’s flat and the first thing he saw was Willow twirling a pencil, eyes burning into his, he had a newfound appreciation for the vampire version of adrenaline, because the rush of impending death was something he would never get tired of. Well, when the death actually stuck maybe.

Buffy had apparently decided he could die another day, despite his constantly pushing the envelope, and he had gotten a little more risky on the remainder of their walk, occasionally lifting their miraculously clasped hands to tenderly kiss the back of hers, feeling her blood pulsing through the veins that crisscrossed the fragile bones and tendons, and the risk had paid off when Buffy had led him to a corner of Giles’s courtyard for a long, thorough snog before they headed in to join the Scoobies, warm open kisses that didn’t need to go anywhere, just an end unto themselves. Comfort and succour for their upcoming trial:

At least two hours of Scoobies TALKING.

Spike had briefly considered resurrecting his drinking game from the last meeting, but swiftly realised that it was not going to work, because bloody well everything Buffy did now made him hard, including just breathing and existing, and the only way he would manage to keep up would be if he just hooked up the bloody cognac via an IV, and while for the most part he didn’t have to deal with the less-pleasant aspects of drunkenness – he could always get it up – he did want to be sober enough to really enjoy Buffy’s body later that night, on her comfy frilly bed. HER bed. That she had invited him to.

So maybe he would just drink when Xander said something that pissed him off. That should get a decent-but-not-disabling buzz going.

Willow, though… He wasn’t quite sure what that look on Willow’s face was. It wasn’t the confident threat she had worn the other morning, but there was a warning in it of some sort. He couldn’t imagine what he had done to earn it, because any ninny could tell from the delicious glow of Buffy’s skin and the swish of her hips as she headed down the hall to “freshen up” that he was keeping her Very Happy Indeed – Willow didn’t need to know about the pissing-her-off bits – and of course Willow had heard some of the happy-making personally (some of his best, even; Buffy would deny it, but she loved having an audience), and on top of that Willow herself was getting her share of happies from her new bird, so she should be all warm and fuzzy and… ah.

He let a slow smile creep across his face. This was going to be fun.

Willow had retreated to the couch and he followed her, snagging the brandy off the top of the bookshelf along the way. She flicked a glance up at him, then back down at her lap, at the pencil she still held in fidgeting fingers. “Hey,” she said nervously.

“H’lo,” Spike replied amiably, settling into the opposite corner of the couch and setting about the important business of filling his flasks. He nodded at the pencil. “Planning on using that on me, love?”

Willow sighed. “No,” she admitted grudgingly. She kept fiddling with it, though, twirling it around and around in her fingers, and Spike grinned, gladly accepting the implied risk.

“I assume the remainder of your shower was… pleasant,” he said nonchalantly, screwing the top on full flask number one and taking a goodly swig of brandy straight from the bottle.

Awkward silence. Good. It was brilliant to have power again, however petty. But as he pondered his options for torment, he started to feel… Well, that was the word right there. Petty. Pathetic. Like the Slightly Substandard instead of the Big Bad. And yeah, wasn’t long ago that would have been good enough, that little taste of almost-badness being better than no badness at all, but now… Now he had almost anything he could want, anything except blood straight from the tap and killing humans, and yeah, granted, that was a big thing to be missing, but Buffy had died in his arms over and over now – little deaths, thank you France for that bit of insight – and that was better than any of his kills, a hundred years’ worth, and he weighed the tiny twitch of pleasure harassing Willow would give him against Buffy’s likely reaction to the harassment, and, well, there really was no contest.

“Buffy doesn’t know,” he said suddenly, a little exasperated with his own capitulation.

Willow let out a little laugh, levitated the pencil for a second, let it drop. “Buffy’s not stupid. Don’t lie to me.”

Spike glared at her, taking another drink of brandy. “She knows you’re getting some, yeah,” he said shortly, glancing up to make sure Giles was out of earshot. “Doesn’t know the part you’re really worried about.”

Willow looked at him sidelong, but remained silent.

“I have excellent hearing,” Spike said conversationally, tilting the brandy bottle at her, a little toast to himself. “Comes with the not-being-human. And I have more than a hundred years of listening in the dark to boot. Not much I can’t tell from a voice and a heartbeat.” He took another drink. “That’s not even taking into account smell.”

“So.” Willow tossed the pencil into the air, caught it with her mind, pointed it at him. “You know.”

“Not worth dusting me over,” Spike grinned. “And it’s not like I’m going to tell what I know.”

Willow turned to face him then, surprised. “You’re not?”

Spike shrugged. “Nothing in it for me.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Doubt the slayer’s impressed by gossip about her nearest and dearest. Dust me herself, she thought I was stabbing you in the back.” He couldn’t hold back a fond smile. “She’d make it hurt, too.”

Willow looked at him steadily. “So this isn’t you being nice.”

“Thought we’d been through this. I’m not nice. Evil.” He looked off at the curtains. “You should tell her, though.” He kept his gaze averted as he drank more brandy, because even as he told himself that being halfway decent to Buffy’s friends was just part of the larger game of keeping-Buffy-in-favour-of-fucking-Spike, he knew he didn’t have to do this, he could just let things play out. Not his business. But… Willow had done him a solid the other morning, she’d kept her promise, and once upon a time, Spike had been a gentleman. Still was, when he wanted to be. He paid his debts. (Though he did in the end prefer the ones he could pay back with bloodshed and mayhem.)

He could feel Willow’s hands fumbling with the pencil in her lap, frantic. “She won’t understand,” Willow finally said, voice cracking. “What if she freaks?”

“You know Buffy. She might freak, yeah, in the moment. But when she calms down, she’ll be okay with it.” He narrowed his eyes, glaring at the curtains as if he could set them on fire. “Got a lot of love in her, the slayer does,” he muttered, a bit bitterly, because he knew none of it was for him, not a lick. Fucking Little Match Girl all over again, pressing his fucking nose against the fucking window. Well, bugger that. He didn’t fucking need it anyhow, not when he had the fighting and the fucking to enjoy. _Bugger, bugger, bugger._

Willow went all silent and still, and he could feel her eyes on him, but he refused to look at her, refused to see if her face held disgust or compassion or gratitude, because he was the fucking Big Bad and he didn’t need her pity. He made himself relax and start filling his next flask, as if he didn’t care one bit what the slayer did with her overflowing heart.

Finally Willow sighed. “It’s weird,” she said in a completely normal tone of voice, though very quiet. “You’d think if I was going to fall in love with a girl, it would be Buffy I’d fall in love with.”

Spike shrugged, face blank.

“But I think I get it now,” Willow went on. “I used to wonder what was wrong with me, that the people I fell in love with didn’t want me. Until Oz. And… and Tara. Like it was just a matter of how much they loved me, so if they didn’t want me it was because they just didn’t love me enough, because I wasn’t good enough. But that’s not it at all. It’s just… different.” She pulled her feet up on the couch, hugging her legs. “Because I know I couldn’t possibly love Buffy more than I do, but… it’s not the same. It’s like looking through different eyes.”

Spike barely restrained himself from pitching the half-empty brandy bottle at the fireplace. “Bloody hell, Red. Don’t exactly need the after-school-special moral lecture on FEELINGS.” Why the bloody buggering fuck had he decided not to torment Willow with evil insinuations and veiled threats? That had been fucking stupid. He turned to Willow, letting all his fury and frustration show on his face…

And she smiled at him. Not a scared, nervous little smile, either, or a smile of veiled malice and distrust, but the Full Willow, laughing eyes and crooked lips and beaming joy exuding from every pore. “Buffy sees you through different eyes,” she laughed. “I get it now.”

And she bounced up from the couch to answer the door, and Spike felt his anger dissipate into confusion as he watched her hug Xander and conspicuously not hug Anya.

What the hell was that all about?

But then Buffy came down the hall, now in skin-tight jeans and a silky red shirt, and he felt the Words He Must Never Say on his lips again, and he stopped his mouth up with the brandy bottle. Time for less thinking and more drinking.

Fucking Scoobies.

\---

Buffy knew it was cowardly to rush right past Willow with a carefully blank smile and wave, but it was a fact that her leather pants were Not Comfortable after Spike’s little _coup d’état_ under the tree, and Willow, being the very best of friends, would totally want her best friend Buffy to be comfortable in her own clothes at this Very Important Scooby Meeting, right?

Oh, she knew it was delaying the inevitable. Eventually, they were going to have to have The Talk. And when they did, it was probably going to be a huge relief, to get it all out in the open, like ripping off a  Band-Aid, and seeing as Willow had to know that Spike was Buffy’s shower companion, and hadn’t yet broken out the Donald-Sutherland-Invasion-of-the-Body-Snatchers-scream-of-doom, chances were they would come out the other end still friends, if possibly a little grossed out, and then Willow could get a little revenge by introducing HER new boyfriend, who might even be just a teensy-tiny bit evil (Buffy could hope), and they could all be embarrassed together, except for Spike who would just be smug because he had no shame, and they could all go back to their regularly-scheduled sex-capades, except never, ever, EVER in the same room again. (If it came down to it, Willow could make up a handy-dandy color-coded schedule.)

But right now, right this very second, Buffy needed to clean her body and clear her head so that she could think about something other than Spike.

Of course, Giles’s apartment was the worst possible place to try not thinking about Spike, because there was the laundry machine he had draped his delicious naked body over, and then the spare bedroom where they had done All The Sex Things – except she got the feeling it really wasn’t All, that he had more Sex Things held in reserve – and of course now she was changing into a red shirt she knew he would love, all clingy and touchable, in the bathroom where she had made the earth-shattering decision to release her inner Sex Goddess, and where Spike had then gone down on his knees and worshipped her with thorough carnality, not to mention helping her put that distinct dent in Giles’s baseboard, and… Well.

Under the circumstances, she should probably get credit for not cancelling the Scooby meeting entirely, kicking everybody out including Giles, and despoiling all the other rooms of the apartment with naughty vampire sex. Starting with that incredibly comfortable leather recliner. Which technically had already been slightly despoiled, just under magical influence.

It was very, very tempting.

But this Scooby Meeting was important, she knew it was, even if she couldn’t remember exactly what they were meeting to talk about, and she was a mature woman with Self-Control, and surely she could survive a few hours without even yet still more carnal knowledge of the infuriating, intoxicating, incredibly evil vampire that just would not get out of her head so she could THINK.

She glared at herself in the mirror, as if she could infuse herself with will- and brain-power just through her reflection, but instead she saw… too much. There was too much in her eyes.

He had thrown her; that was the problem. Shaken her but good. She could handle the jealousy, she could handle the darkness, the power games, the fighting, the sex, all of that, but he kept TALKING, and for some mysterious reason every word out of his mouth was sharp with insight, because he SAW her. Saw the really real Buffy, the one she didn’t even know so well herself.

Okay, so maybe not every word. Spike talked a lot, and a lot of it was bullshit. But when Buffy edited out the _bloodies_ and _buggers_ and _cheerios_ and other profanity, and the bravado and smack-talk, not to mention the stupid punk song lyrics, what was left cut deep.

_You crave my darkness just like I crave your light._

God, she didn’t even know what that was supposed to MEAN, and it still stabbed through her like a stake, like she was the one destined to turn to dust. What the hell?

He was in her head, in her body, stupid black-nail-polish fingers dug deep into every part of her. She looked at her reflection, and in the shine of her eyes, the tangle of her hair, the throbbing pulse at her throat, all she saw was him.

Buffy shuddered a deep breath. She was so, so scared.

But she still wanted more. More and deeper and harder, and she was the one who was bent after all, because she did crave his darkness, like rich dark chocolate. He was so, so right about that. That wasn’t the part she didn’t get.

It was the ‘light’ part she didn’t understand. All she ever saw were shadows.

And dammit, she was still thinking about Spike.

\---

Xander had once again come bearing goodies: a huge box of donuts, pizzas from his current place of gainful employment, and a discreet paper bag from the one store in Sunnydale that every high school and college student knew. The one where they weren’t especially picky about the quality or indeed presence of identification.

Buffy peeked into the bag curiously, pulling out one of the still-cold bottles to look at the label. She couldn’t help but look at Xander askance. “Boone’s Strawberry Hill?”

Anya plucked the bottle out of her hands. “Xander says it’s like a wine cooler, except with a manly hobo ambience.” She twisted the cap off. “We didn’t want to get anything too strong, because we want to have sex tonight.”

Buffy was not going to delve any deeper into that horrifying statement, instead digging into the donut box. Mmmm. Lots of jellies, though they were glazed instead of powdered. This was almost certainly for the best. She plucked out two, nonchalantly strolling over to hand one to Spike, which was really just an excuse to touch his stupid black-nail-polished fingers. She knew better than to watch him eat it, though, turning her back to him and leaning against the back of the couch to delicately nibble at her own. Anya was hurriedly handing a tumbler of the pale-pink pseudo-wine to Xander, who glared at Buffy as he took a good swig. Huh. Had he planned on eating all the jellies himself? There were, like, eight. And if those ran out, there were still plenty of cookies, plates set out ostentatiously and desperately on almost every flat surface.

“Thanks for the donut, love,” Spike purred, waiting until she half-turned in acknowledgment to take his first bite. He got a little jelly on his cheek, and she could tell from the look in his eyes that he knew it was there and was leaving it there On Purpose. She wanted to lick it off, then lick the rest of him, every inch, to make sure she hadn’t missed any wayward jelly splotches, but she managed to restrain herself and just catch the jelly on her finger, popping it quickly into her mouth in hopes nobody was watching.

Oh. Everybody was watching. Xander was watching and drinking. So, for that matter, was Giles. Buffy lurched to her feet, dusting her hands off briskly. “SO!” she began. “I bet you’re wondering why we needed to have a meeting tonight!”

“Oooh! Oooh!” Anya had her hand up, like it was high school again. “I know! It’s the fuzz, right?”

“Yeah, there were more police officers than cockroaches at the Bronze last night.” Xander sounded like his normal goofy self, but he was watching Buffy warily, like she was a ticking time-bomb. “What did you do this time?”

“Just fighting demons!” Buffy hastened to reply. “Demons and vampires and sacred duty, and I guess maybe they’re mad about the ‘Welcome to Sunnydale’ sign, but in my defense, it really was not sturdily constructed, and…”

“Buffy!” Willow’s eyes were big – awkward-shower-conversation big – and Buffy could feel her lips stretching in an awkward-busted grin to match. “They just had the dedication ceremony the other day! There were speeches! The mayor’s was really touching, about community and outreach and…” She trailed off, looking sheepishly around the room. “So I watch the news.”

Giles tossed back a bit more Scotch. “I am given to understand that the sign fell in the line of duty, in the course of a well-deserved thrashing.” He glared at the bottles of liquor on the counter, which Buffy noticed were almost empty.

She sank against the back of the couch again, feeling a bit empty, not realizing what she needed until she felt Spike’s fingers in the small of her back. He was looking off at the curtains, as if he wasn’t paying attention, but he had bent his arm at the elbow so the backs of his fingers just reached the top of her jeans, nails scratching lightly along her skin, then a finger hooking in a belt loop. She took a deep breath, feeling a bit calmer. But still pissed off. “I didn’t do it on purpose, and they don’t have any proof,” she sulked.

Anya rolled her eyes and took a big drink from her own tumbler of hobo-nectar. “You’d think they would be grateful for the work you do keeping the mortality rate low. You don’t even get dental.”

“I know, right?” Buffy suddenly thought Anya might be her favorite Scooby after all. Well, okay, she wasn’t, because Willow and Xander and Giles, and Spike had the hot sex thing in his favor, but Anya was definitely moving up the ranks from her previous position of ‘barely-tolerated.’ “But that’s not the real problem.” Buffy glared at Giles, because she really couldn’t glare at Willow, because awkward. “Have we made any progress on neutralizing these stupid anklets? Because the alarm is bad enough, but I can’t do my job if I have to worry about the police and their stupid Slay-dar.”

“Wait, what?” Xander had relaxed back on his stool a bit, like the time-bomb was a false alarm, but that brought him to attention. “They’re tracking you?” He glared at her ankle. “Bastards. That can’t be legal.”

“It’s not,” Giles said shortly.

Willow had excited-face again though, and Buffy made herself look at her, because really she couldn’t go the rest of her life not looking at her best friend. “Hey! I think I have something! For the anklets.”

“Really?” Buffy glanced over at Spike, who was suddenly very interested, releasing her belt loop and draping his arm over the back of the couch. This coincidentally brought his fingers into light contact with her thigh. She shifted an inch closer, so the contact was less light. That was better. “I thought your research had turned up nada and bupkiss.”

Willow flashed a grin. “I don’t have a way to stop the alarm, but I think I have something that can stop the tracking.” She looked triumphantly at Xander and Anya, but they were curled up together having a deep whispered conversation, and her face fell. “Don’t all get excited at once,” she pouted.

Xander sat up straight, taking a drink while Anya did the same. “I’m all with the woo and the hoo,” he said, sounding not-at-all-excited. “Is it more satisfying than chopping off Spike’s leg?”

Spike looked about to say something to that, but Buffy shut him up with a hand on his arm, because she was SO not in the mood for the sniping, and so he and Xander just glared at each other over the tops of their respective drinks. “Whatcha got, Will?” She suddenly realized her hand was still on Spike’s arm, which was very nice indeed but probably not very secretive; she folded her arms so her wayward fingers had to settle for her armpits instead of Spike’s soft green shirt. Over a hard Spike bicep. Dammit.

Willow waved her hand at Giles to pull his attention from the liquor he was meditatively sloshing around in his glass. “Giles, remember the ionization spell?”

Giles shook himself, glancing over at Buffy before focusing on Willow. “Yes, of course. From the Halsey text.” He leaned forward a bit, face serious. “But I thought we had agreed that it would only set the alarms off immediately, which was not in any way the result we were seeking.”

Willow nodded, face gleaming with pride. “But we were talking about putting the spell on the anklets directly, with a really small radius. That’s definitely no good. If we did just one it would cut off the signal, la la la, beeping fiesta, grumpy faces all around. And we can’t do them individually, because we couldn’t possibly get them both at the exact same moment, which would be super risky. But if we can get a single field around BOTH of them…”

“Around both of them?” Giles stood abruptly and strode to the counter, refilling his glass from the Scotch decanter and opening the donut box, though he didn’t take anything, just looked. “I would think the field would be too weak to be useful if you tried to expand it that far.”

“It’s not going to be huge,” Willow admitted, “but I think I can get it up to about a six-foot radius and still be effective. More, if… Well, let me see what I can do right now.” She suddenly looked self-conscious, glancing at Spike. He just looked at her steadily, stroking his fingers absently against Buffy’s leg.

“Six feet?” Giles scoffed. “Willow, the strength of an electrical field is based on a one over r-squared relationship. We were discussing a mere one-foot radius previously. I highly doubt the spell will work if…”

Willow narrowed her eyes. “Since when did you become Mr. Physics-Knowledge-Guy?”

Giles took a drink of his Scotch. “I am an educated man.”

“Really? They teach physics at the Watcher’s Academy?” Willow’s voice sounded half-teasing, half-curious.

“No, of course not.” Giles shrugged, looking embarrassed. “I, well, I dabbled.”

“Like you dabbled in summoning demons?”

“Not quite,” Giles muttered into his drink.

Willow looked like she was ready to keep on arguing about equations and crap like that for hours – she had that fire of academic fervor in her eyes – so Buffy interrupted. “Look, I don’t care if Giles spent a million pounds buying illegal physics textbooks from his hard-science pusher on the streets of Soho. In the rain.” There was a reason Buffy was an undeclared Liberal Arts major, and math was a big part of it and physics was a bigger part of it.

“Brixton,” Giles muttered.

Buffy ignored him. “Can you get us six feet or not, Wills? And are you sure it won’t set things off?”

Willow looked a little sad at having to drop the argument, but she nodded. “I’m pretty sure it won’t set off the beeps of doom. I can cancel the spell pretty quickly if it doesn’t work, so it’s worth a try, at least.” She glanced at Giles, face stubborn. “And having actually taken physics within the past decade, with a 105% average I might add, I’m VERY sure about the six feet.”

“And I’m very sure electricity doesn’t work that way,” Giles interjected testily.

“Yes, but this is MAGIC electricity,” Willow said with a grin. Giles gave her a pained look, but dropped the subject.

Xander shifted in his seat. “Maybe it’s just me, but ‘six feet’ sounds a lot less of the good than ‘fifty feet.’ Just as a layman.” He gave Anya a miserable puppy-dog look as she topped off their drinks.

Buffy carefully did not point out that she and Spike had spent most of the past week much, much closer than six feet. More like zero feet. Though from her sidelong glance at Spike’s eyes, flashing blue over the brandy bottle, he was thinking the same thing.

Giles finally selected a jelly donut (as if there had been any doubt, he always went straight for the jellies, raspberry fiend that he was, but Buffy still glared at him, feeling a little possessive now – she really, really wanted there to be leftovers) and made a wry face. “You would not be wrong.” He nodded at Willow, looking a little grumpy. “Halsey text’s on the third shelf there.”

She went to fetch it, smiling again. “The spell gets bound to an object,” Willow explained. “A crystal, or an amulet… Something metal is best, I think. And it can be something they can put down or take off. So they don’t have to stay inside the six feet all the time, just when they want to mute the tracking signal.”

That sounded really good to Buffy, seeing as the much-closer-than-six-feet moments were also the moments she least wanted a heavy police presence. “So, what do you need?”

Willow was silent for a bit as she leafed through the fragile pages of the book. “Um… The components are all pretty standard. Giles, did we use up all the powdered hematite?” Giles shook his head, mouth full of donut. “Then we should have everything. We just need the focus object.”

Spike shifted on the couch, withdrawing his arm, and Buffy almost protested the loss of his casually stroking finger, until she realized he was twisting his hands together, pulling off a ring. “Use this, Red,” he said in an expressionless voice. Which was actually fairly expressive, at least to Buffy, because she was starting to realize he only pulled back like that when he was feeling vulnerable. Buffy looked at the ring he was holding up.

Oh.

Willow came over and took it between two fingers, dubiously. “A skull ring?”

Spike shrugged. “It’s metal. Not too important.” He glared at the dark windows. “Should do.”

Buffy cleared her throat. “A skull? Ew, gross!” she said without much conviction, her hand drifting over to rest on Spike’s shoulder for a moment, just a little squeeze of recognition. She had said something awful to him – she couldn’t remember what, but she knew it had been awful – when she had ripped the symbol of their engagement from her hand and shoved it at him, not that long ago, before tying him to a chair so they could both pretend none of it had happened. _I’m sorry,_ she thought. _Whatever I said, I’m sorry._

“Don’t have to wear it, Slayer,” Spike said gruffly. “Can put it in your precious pocket.” He casually ran his fingers along her wrist. Like he had heard her.

“Buffy!” Xander suddenly burst out, eyes wild. “Do you even realize what you’re…?”

Anya whapped him on the shoulder. “Xander! That’s cheating!” She gave him a significant look, finishing off her glass of cheap pink booze.

Xander looked at his girlfriend desperately, but her face was unrelenting, and he grudgingly finished off his own drink, letting Anya refill it from a fresh bottle. Buffy narrowed her eyes at them for a moment, but she had never really gotten the Xander/Anya dynamic, not at all, so she figured they were just playing some kinky sex game that she really didn’t want to ask about, which was a fair guess on any given day, and turned her attention back to Willow, who was pounding away at some concoction of spell-y stuff with a little marble mortar and pestle, Giles looking over her shoulder.

After a bit more pounding, Willow glanced over at the couch. “Buffy, can you and Spike move Giles’s desk? We need some clear floor space.”

“Make Spike do manual labor? I’m so on it.” Buffy slapped Spike lightly between the shoulder blades, trying not to linger. “You heard the lady.”

Spike glared up at her half-heartedly, eyes hooded and wary, and she met them with a cheeky grin. Sighing, he rolled to his feet, licking donut-glaze off his fingers. Buffy frowned, because he had finished his donut, like, five minutes ago – she could sense his donut-eating like Giles had tried to train her to sense vampires, a sixth sense for sexy pastry consumption – but then he looked at her hotly and she realized he had been saving the glaze on his fingers for her, which was an excellent idea that she wished she had thought of. There had damn well better be leftovers. The convenience stores that were open late in Sunnydale never had jellies left after dark.

They got the desk up against the wall with little trouble and Willow shooed everyone to the fringes of the room while she set the ring in the very center of the cleared space and sprinkled the powder from the mortar in a small circle around it. Buffy stood on the stairs, a few risers up so she could see, and Spike drifted over to stand behind her, casually sliding his hand along the wall to brush against hers, tracing a light line across her ring finger, though when she glanced up at him his face was aimed at the ritual, looking vaguely bored.

Willow knelt beside the circle, taking a deep breath. “Okay, guys. There may be a bit of a ripple effect when the spell takes effect, but it should dissipate in a few minutes.”

“By ripple effect, do you mean electrocution?” Anya said with a worried glance at Xander. “Because that would be bad.”

“No, not electrocution,” Willow said with an irritated eyeroll. “Just some tinglies from the ionization.”

Anya set her jaw mutinously. “Well, I don’t think…”

“Can we not do this now, guys?” Buffy said firmly. “Just cast the spell.”

Giles read the words out of the book and Willow repeated them, eyes closed, fingers tracing around and around the magick circle, and with the last word there was an audible sizzle, Buffy felt a rush of tingles sweep through her like a shock wave, and the lights flickered behind their stained-glass lampshades, one bulb blowing out with a soft pop. When the tingles faded, Buffy could feel her hair infused with static, floating up and drifting back to stick to Spike’s cotton shirt. He sucked in a huge breath, raising a hand to brush it away.

“Keep your hair to yourself, Slayer,” he grumbled, and she could hear the undertone of lust in his voice, feel the way his fingers trembled in her crackling hair, and she turned and looked up at him with a grin. His hair was sticking straight up, choppily, like he had teased it up in a hurry, and she felt her grin widening.

“Look who’s talking, Mister Bad Hair Day,” she said, trying to make her voice sound mean as she tugged at the ends of the spiky tufts. His roots were a little grown out, which was supposed to be a mockable fashion offense, at least according to Cosmo, but it looked really really good on him, so she backburnered the mockery and just enjoyed the view.

Xander made a funny noise and she looked back down at the room, noting that the bad-hair-day was pretty much universal among the Scoobies. Xander was looking at the floor, mournfully chugging his drink while Anya patted his back consolingly. Buffy made a note to give Boone’s Strawberry Hill a try, because she knew Xander shared her taste in alcohol – which is to say not wanting it to taste like alcohol - and he was obviously finding it Very Tasty Indeed. At some point they had even cracked the third bottle.

Giles had his back to them as he shelved the huge book, but Willow was beaming up at them, snatching up the ring and tossing it to them. Spike caught it with one hand before it got within Buffy’s reach.

“That should do it,” Willow said, a bit smugly. “One of you put it on and then see how far apart you can get.”

There was a brief moment of suspense when Buffy thought Spike was going to fall to his knees in front of her again, and she held her breath, wondering if she wanted him to or not, but then Spike just shoved it into her hand and brushed past her, stalking down the stairs. Buffy looked at the ring, which was almost ice-cold from the magick, then hurriedly slipped it on the ring finger of her right hand, where it dangled loosely. Just like it had on her left.

It felt wrong.

Spike wouldn’t look at her, glaring at Willow instead – she was surprisingly unperturbed by his dark face – as the witch guided them around the room. It turned out they could get about seven feet apart before the field cut off the anklet communication, setting off the godawful beeping. (Xander jumped entertainingly every time it went off; he seemed really on edge tonight, which was odd since Buffy would have expected the Boone’s to have relaxed him, but then again the beeping was pretty much the worst sound ever.) Willow was pleased, though, pointing out that this was actually a fourteen-foot diameter, more than she had expected.

Giles looked at them standing seven feet apart, sipping his Scotch. When had he refilled it again? Wow, everyone was getting their drink on tonight. ”Are you sure you can’t make it larger?” he said neutrally. “This might be problematic for patrol.”

Willow looked at Spike when she answered. “I think we can expand the range if I get some help.” Her face was a little red. “I have a friend, she’s really strong. I think if I ask her to help, um, join in her energies, we can juice it up a bit.” She took a deep breath. “I can bring her over tomorrow.” Was Spike smiling at Willow? That was weird. Buffy was pretty sure Willow still hated Spike, at the very least, even if he seemed to have mellowed a bit about the Will-Be-Done spell.

But actually, she had to hand it to Willow. A new magick friend AND a new boyfriend, all without a wing-woman? (No offense to Xander, but he was a crappy wing-man when it came to meeting new people; social expansion was all Buffy’s responsibility.) Willow was really coming into her own, brimming with social confidence and… well, no, she was still totally on the awkward side, but there was something about her now, like she owned her awkwardness, like she wasn’t going to let it hold her back. It was really really beautiful.

Buffy rushed over to Willow for a hug. “You know I love you, right?”

Willow hugged back, then jerked when Buffy’s anklet went off. Spike had started to stalk over to the couch, but swung back around at the noise, coming just close enough that the beeping stopped. Buffy glared at him over Willow’s shoulder for ruining her best-friends moment. What was his problem anyways? He was acting all moody and weird. Did vampires have some weird form of PMS?

Giles was apparently wondering the same thing, watching Spike with a furrowed brow for a moment before glancing up at the ornate clock on the wall. “Perhaps we should call it a night,” he said briskly, setting his glass down on the counter. “Let Buffy and… Spike… test the blocking field on patrol.” He sighed and went after another jelly donut.

Buffy let go of Willow, still watching Spike cautiously. “We need to bring stuff to my mom’s house too. Most of the things I need are here.”

“Ah, so you’ve straightened things out, then? Good, good.” Giles’s face was relieved, but he didn’t sound like he thought things were ‘good’ at all. “Make sure you take Spike’s… BOX.” There, that was easy to interpret: disgust. Buffy totally agreed with him. The box of SPD mementoes was a gross, gross thing, and maybe Spike would let her throw it all away. Especially the signed panties. Though she would make him do the actual honors, because she was not not NOT going to touch them. Ew.

But with the meeting officially adjourned, Xander and Anya were pulling on their coats, Xander clutching the last, mostly-empty bottle of hobo manliness, a shell-shocked look on his face; Willow solicitously offered to drive them home, since drunk and dark and vampires, and Anya agreed cheerily, face lit up in anticipation of the sex Buffy didn’t want to know they intended to have. When they were gone, Giles ended up staring at his alcohol again, silent and thoughtful as Buffy and Spike gathered their belongings from around the apartment – the seven-foot thing was really annoying, but Buffy didn’t offer to take the ring off and Spike didn’t ask her to – and when Spike finally tucked his balled-up duster and Giles’s brandy into his stupid box (Giles insisted on the brandy, declaring that he had no intention of ever drinking anything from that particular Spike-infected bottle ever again) the apartment was quiet and peaceful again.

“Are you going to miss us, Giles?” Buffy said facetiously as she hefted her bags.

“Oh yes,” Giles said ironically. “Spike has been the very best of flatmates. I shall endeavor not to weep as I enjoy my peaceful, private evening alone.” But he gave her a good Scotch-smelling hug, and she hugged him back while Spike shifted restlessly in his Doc Martens a few feet away. “Don’t get arrested,” Giles said quietly, then raised his head and his voice, addressing Spike. “Don’t make me have to stake you,” he said, and his voice was suddenly steel.

Spike shrugged, looking at the floor. “Course not,” he said shortly. “Like being in the world.”

“Indeed.” Giles’s voice was cool, but there was a hint of black humor in it.

Buffy nonchalantly stuck the box of donuts in Spike’s cardboard box, on top of the crumpled duster. “Later, Giles!” she said cheerily, ostentatiously ignoring Spike’s raised eyebrow as she hurried him out the door.

Like he was going to complain about leftovers. Especially when he found out what she intended to do with them.

 

End Chapter 14

 

Chapter 14 Author’s Notes

Not a quote per se, but some imagery in this chapter is owed to the song “Breathe,” originally by Maria McKee. The version I know is a haunting a capella rendering by the Harvard-Radcliffe Opportunes off the BOCA compilations. (On the Spotify playlist now!) It’s a very Spuffy song that, if I had the time, I would totally make a fanvid for.

The Boone’s Strawberry Hill is dedicated with love to my fellow Bienville Hall residents who, one Spring Break when we were all too cash-strapped to go anywhere interesting, hung out with me on a picnic blanket behind the dorm listening to Pink Floyd and drinking sweet, sweet hobo-nectar. Good times.


	15. Precipitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who voted for "Prisoners of Love, Blue Skies Above" at the Sunnydale Memorial Fanfic Awards Round 32! I am honored to have won Best Fluff and Best Comedy, come in as Runner-Up for Best NC-17 (behind sweetprincipale's stellar "Unmentionable"), and also won Best New Author! Plus, my super-duper beta The Moonmoth won Best Beta! I honestly had the hardest time deciding who to vote for myself, there was so much fantastic fic on display. If you get a chance, head on over and give a read to all the nominees and winners, maybe go give them some commenting love:
> 
> http://sunnydawards.dragonydreams.com/round32/winners32.html

Both Buffy and Spike were overloaded on the walk back to her house, Spike with his overflowing cardboard box of ick and Buffy with all the clothes and toiletries she had piled up at Giles’s during the week, which was frustrating because all their sneaky little caresses over the course of the Scooby Meeting had Buffy in the mood for some non-sneaky big caresses, but she supposed they had all night now, so she settled for bumping her arm against his every so often as they walked. Just to let him know she was still there.

Spike was silent and taciturn for the first few minutes of the walk, but she couldn’t tell if it was something she’d done or something left over from the meeting or something in his box – because that’s where he was directing his sullen glare – and after a few minutes he sighed and relaxed, looking over at her with a neutral expression. “Think the witch’s mojo’s going to work?”

“God, I hope so.” Buffy gave the bags in her arms a little heave, feeling the clunky ring slide around on her finger. “We know it’s doing something, or the alarm tests wouldn’t have worked.”

They walked in silence for another minute, but it was a nice silence. Friendly. Which was kind of weird.

Finally, Spike sighed again. “So, patrol tonight.”

“Yeah. Patrol.”

More silence.

“Plans?”

Buffy frowned. “Not especially. Need to end up by the Bronze around one for last call.” Spike raised an eyebrow. “Not last call for drinks, last call for vamps. The parade of the drunk and stupid is like… like those sushi shops, with the conveyor belts? Vamps wait in the shadows, snatch up whatever looks yummy.” She looked at him sidelong.

Spike made a funny strangled noise, which she really hoped was a response to her incredibly subtle reference to her pajamas – which were conveniently clean and packed right at the top of one of her bags – and not nostalgia for his own days lurking in the shadows, waiting for dinner to glide by. Though Spike wasn’t really the waiting type. He was more the get-tired-of-waiting-go-fishing type. Except not fishing, because fishing (as she understood it from television) also involved a lot of waiting. If Spike were to go fishing, he would have to be like one of those bears, snatching up salmon from the cascades with his bare hands.

Which all called up an image of Spike standing in the middle of the river in rubber hip-waders (black, of course), hands flashing like lightning, water splashing in the sun (which, yeah, not going to happen -- vampire -- but neither were the hip-waders so she let her imagination go with it), hair tousled and wet, and then her brain went on with the wet image except this time without the hip-waders or actually any clothing at all, just Spike naked and wet in the rapids, grinning and beckoning, sinking into that low crouch he favored just before springing into battle…

“You coming, Slayer?”

Buffy realized she had stopped stock-still on the sidewalk; Spike had paused a few feet in front of her, glaring back over his shoulder.

“Can you swim?” Buffy asked, suddenly very interested.

Spike turned the rest of the way around, smiling that time-to-indulge-the-hot-crazy-lady smile that he had obviously spent a century perfecting. “Yeah. Why?”

“Just wondering.” And now she was wondering where the nearest rapids were, because even when one edited out the sunlight, that vision, the no-hip-waders one, seriously needed to become a reality. Actually, moonlight would probably make it even better. There was a creek in the woods south of the Gutierrez crypt, over in Evergreen Memorial; it might be running high from the winter rains. Not high enough for swimming, but picturesque. “We should patrol Evergreen tonight, too.”

Spike shrugged. “All right.” They resumed walking, Buffy leaning up against his arm for a brief second. The soft green shirt even smelled good.

And towels were SO back on the patrol-kit packing list.

\---

Buffy’s mom was still up when they got back to the house, drinking another glass of wine on the couch and watching some PBS show; Buffy watched her closely as she greeted Spike, but she didn’t seem especially flirty now, and she grudgingly admitted that maybe Spike was right, that her mom wasn’t interested in him. It helped though that Spike had definitely pulled back a bit on the Rico Suave act, sitting in the side chair and giving Joyce a much-edited account of the Scooby meeting, without any reference to sex or alcohol, while Buffy loaded up with weapons and nonchalantly tucked a pair of towels into a cute little backpack that wouldn’t get in the way of the slaying. There wasn’t any whipped cream in the fridge, but Joyce had already put mini-marshmallows and cocoa on the grocery list, so Buffy added it right underneath, in hopes that her mom would think it was just another hot-chocolate topping, rather than a hot vampire topping. Hopefully she would get to the store before their next patrol. In the meantime, they had donuts waiting upstairs for after patrol, and a moonlit creek waiting outside for during patrol, and a goodly supply of stakes and sharp implements for the actual patrol – the non-sex parts – so Buffy felt pretty well prepared.

Evergreen was way on the other side of town, so Buffy grabbed Spike’s hand and urged him to a run, and they sped through the streets of Sunnydale until the pillared gates loomed in front of them and she let him go and dropped back to a walk.

As they made their way through the headstones, Spike kept glancing down at her hand, the ring gleaming on it, and while she understood because she was also hyper-aware of the metal sliding around on her skin, for all sorts of reasons, it was also kind of bugging her, so finally she turned on him with a huff and blurted out, “What?”

Spike rolled his shoulders, digging his hands into his jeans pockets. “Shoulda put some twine on that before we left the house. Might lose it, it being loose.”

Buffy curled her hands up to her chest, cradling the ring protectively. “I won’t lose it.”

He looked at her sardonically. “Yes, because everything always goes according to plan in the heat of battle.”

“I won’t!” Buffy insisted, though she had that sinking feeling in her chest that said Spike was right – and how sick was that, even thinking those three words? Just a week ago she would have laughed her ass off at the very suggestion that Spike could be right about anything.

But they didn’t have any string, or ribbon, or anything she could wind around the shank of the ring to adjust the size for her smaller finger, and even though it would fit perfectly on Spike’s finger, which would be safer and not make a difference for the spell, she didn’t want to give it back. It was hers. They both knew it. They just didn’t want to say it.

“If you were holding on to something, good and tight, you wouldn’t have to worry so much,” Spike suggested, looking off at the horizon. “Something you didn’t want to let go of.”

“Oh right, a weapon.” Buffy tugged a stake out of her waistband, wrapping her fingers tightly around it. “How’s this?”

Spike turned and looked at her silently for a long moment, then laughed. “Yeah, that’ll do all right,” he said shortly, then turned and started to walk, hands still in his pockets.

Buffy hurried after him. “Oh my God, what is it now?”

Spike turned and stepped right in front of her, so that she crashed into his chest, and a second later he was kissing her, hands cradling her head like an eggshell, and she decided right then it didn’t matter what Spike was all vamp-PMSing about, because his fingers were so so gentle in her hair and his lips were hard and demanding, and it seemed like it had been forever, like a whole chapter of her life had gone by without any kissing at all, so she slid her hands up his back, until her fisted hands reached his hard shoulder blades, the stake snagging in the cotton of the shirt along the way. He laughed, lips leaving hers to slide down her neck, and he pressed his open mouth against her pulse, and she shivered.

“Other things you could hold on to,” he said softly.

Buffy tilted her head to the side, encouraging him. “Hmm. There are indeed.” She slid her hands back down to his waist, pulling his hips against hers. “But then I don’t think you would be able to walk.”

Spike jerked at that, as if he were surprised that Buffy’s brain had followed his down the naughty primrose path, nibbling at the cord of her neck. “Would make fighting difficult too.”

“So, stake it is.” Buffy pressed the length of the item in question up against the crack of Spike’s ass, rough against the crisp black denim. That earned her a muttered curse, and he sought out her lips again, sliding his tongue deep.

When Buffy finally had to come up for air, he stepped back and dropped his head against her chest, tousled hair soft against her sternum. (It felt wonderful; Buffy vowed then and there to throw out every ounce of his hair gel before he could go back to his usual slick helmet.) His hands slid down to rest lightly on her hips. “Slayer, you are driving me around the bend.”

“Then my work here is done,” she said cheekily, ruffling the hair at the back of his head with her free hand. Mmmm nice. Definitely pitching the gel. “So, we gonna dust some vamps or not?”

“Depends,” Spike growled. “How many vampires do I need to dust before I can get you naked?” He lifted his head up, glaring into her eyes.

Buffy met his glare, grinning. “As many as you can before we get there.”

Spike lifted his chin. “And just where is ‘there’, pet?”

“You’ll see,” Buffy said airily. She took a few steps backwards, away from him, and he followed, eyes narrow, falling in beside her when she turned.

They found their first fledgling just a few minutes later, a middle-aged woman in a navy business suit, awkward in shiny red pumps; Buffy staked her quickly, with a shiver, rubbing her arms as they walked on.

“You all right, love?”

“Yeah, I just… I don’t like the ones that look like somebody’s mom.”

Spike nodded, face unusually somber, then elbowed her lightly. “Do I get a hint?” His voice was light; Buffy thought it might be deliberate, after the mom-vamp. She was totally on board with a change of subject, though.

“Hmmm.” Buffy glanced over at him. “Wet.”

“Are you indeed?” Spike’s voice was velvet. “Perhaps we could narrow it down a bit more, kitten.”

“Okay then… salmon.”

“We back on sushi, then?” Spike walked silently for a moment. “Not many places open this late.”

“No, the fish. Like, a whole fish. Alive.”

Spike puzzled over this for a moment. “We going on a boat?” he finally said, baffled.

“No. And, um, yeah, probably no actual salmon. It’s kind of an ambience thing, really.”

“Salmon ambience.” Spike’s voice was incredulous. “Slayer, have you gone completely sack of hammers?”

“No! God.” Buffy made a face at Spike as they walked. “Forget it. No more hints.”

Spike walked along beside her in silence for a few minutes. “Wet,” he finally said thoughtfully.

“Yep.”

“And naked.”

“Oh yeah.” Though it was probably going to be cold, naked in a moonlit stream. She decided she didn’t care. She knew where her towel was.

They came across a couple more vampires then, older ones who had made the change from burial attire to what passed for fashion among most vamps, grimy hard-rock t-shirts and ill-fitting leather. It was a bit more of a struggle than Buffy had expected, and they broke their seven-foot barrier twice, once when Spike lashed out with a kick with his ankleted foot and once when a blow sent Buffy tumbling a couple of yards to crash into a nearby mausoleum, but they managed to regroup fast enough to keep the noise pollution minimal, fighting back to back. Buffy staked hers first, then turned and watched as Spike took his down. She liked how he grinned when he fought. For someone who was dead, he really knew how to enjoy life.

When the dust was blowing on the wind, he hooked an arm around her waist and yanked her close for a quick kiss, brisk and affectionate. “Good fight, love.”

“Yeah, you too.” Buffy poked gingerly at her shoulder. “Think this one’s going to bruise,” she grimaced.

Spike splayed a hand over her shoulder, barely touching. “Can go get some ice.”

“No need,” Buffy grinned, rolling her shoulder into his touch. “We’re almost there.”

“Are we, then?” Spike’s hand trembled against her.

She tucked her stake back in her belt, grabbing his hand. “Yes. Come on.” And they ran together past the graves and mausoleums, past the light underbrush that edged the woods and in under the canopy of the trees, where the ground was covered in moss and fallen deadwood. As the trees started to thin at the edges of the creek, Buffy turned and took both of Spike’s hands, locking her eyes on his, walking backwards slowly until they were both out in the moonlight, the quiet rush of water over stones a counterpoint to her ragged breath.

He closed his eyes briefly, lips moving in a silent curse or prayer or incantation, then looked at her again, eyes intense, nearly black in the pale light, as she released his hands and shrugged off her backpack and jacket and grasped the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head. She folded it neatly and set it on a boulder beside the creek bed.

She didn’t know why she had worried about the cold; she was burning, burning, and she barely even noticed the cool breeze against her skin, though she could feel her nipples pebbling as she unfastened her bra – black lace – and dropped it on top of the folded shirt. Spike was watching her, just watching, hands twitching by his side, face suffused with hunger and wonder and desire. There were stakes in her waistband, and she made a neat pile of them next to her shirt, then bent to remove her boots, adding her boot knives to the weapons pile.

She turned her back to Spike to shimmy out of her tight jeans, so as not to waste the dramatic visual effect of the thong; from Spike’s sharp intake of breath when she bent down, she knew it had been worth the effort, and as she tossed the jeans on top of the rest of her clothes, she ran her hands up the back of her thighs and over her own butt before hooking her thumbs in the waistband of the tiny thong, tugging it down just an inch or two before she turned to face Spike again.

“I promised naked,” she said softly, and then shed the thong too, holding it out to the side dramatically before dropping it on top of the heaped clothes, and she stood before him wearing nothing but the anklet that bound them and the ring that bound them closer and the moonlight, planting her hands on her hips. “Now you.”

Spike was shaking, she could feel the effort it took for him to hold back, feel how he wanted to snatch her up and ravish her, but he mirrored her slow tease, skinning out of the green shirt and the black shirt under it, then kicking off his boots. He stayed facing her for the jeans, though, the zipper sighing down to reveal his cock, magnificently erect; he stepped out of the jeans, not bothering to fold them, and stalked towards her, tracing her cheek with the very tip of his finger. “You also promised wet,” he said roughly.

“So I did,” she said with a blazing smile, and took his arms and gave a good yank, stepping aside so Spike stumbled off the bank and into the calf-high water.

Spike cursed loudly, whirling to glare up at her, standing regally on the mossy bank.  “What the FUCK?” he started, but Buffy launched herself at him, knocking him down into the cold running water – THAT cold she felt, gasping with the shock – and then she was straddling him and they were kissing, hands grasping as the water rushed over and around them, and she found his cock and slid down to take him inside and he cursed again, arms sliding under her arms and up to grab her shoulders from behind, sitting up and pulling her snugly down against him.

“You’re insane, Slayer,” Spike said through his teeth, pumping up into her.

Her teeth were chattering, but she rode him even harder. “Maybe.” He was even more beautiful than she had imagined him, the look in his eyes slicing right into her soul. Her knees were getting bruised from the rocks in the creek bed, but she didn’t care. Rocks were better than mud; the icy water flowing around them was clear and pure.

He started to laugh. “You’re lucky… I’m not human.” His eyes rolled back as Buffy swirled her hips around in a circle. “Holy fuck, do that again.”

Buffy did it again, watching his face. “Why’s that?” she gasped out. Oh, that was so good. She did it again, and again.

Spike was still laughing, broken up by gasps and grunts as they strained together. “Human man… oh God… would shrivel in this cold.” He gave an especially hard thrust. “Wouldn’t get any of this.”

Buffy tossed her head. The ends of her hair were wet; they slapped against her back and stuck. “Don’t want a human man,” she chattered out. “Want you.”

He groaned at that and clutched her close, and they strove together roughly, dislodging pebbles from the stream bed. Finally, Spike let go of Buffy, leaned back on his elbow in the water, letting it flow over his chest and down his stomach, parting with a splashing ripple at Buffy’s heaving belly as she rose and fell, and he reached down his other hand to where she was pulsing against his cock and tenderly spread her wide so the cool water rushed right up against her clit, and Buffy nearly screamed from the shock, hoarse voice echoing up to the treetops, and then he slid his cool finger in through the water and stroked her and stroked her until she convulsed around him – this time with just a gasp – and as she shuddered from aftershocks he heaved them both up, struggling to his feet, tucking Buffy securely into his arms.

Buffy shoved at him. “You didn’t…”

“You’re shivering,” Spike said firmly. “Towels?”

“Backpack,” Buffy sulked against his chest.

Spike carried her back to the banks, leaving her dripping on a patch of moss for a moment as he dug out the towels, then briskly rubbing her down until her skin was warm and pink again from the friction, wrapping her up securely. He dried himself off quickly, cursorily, his hair still dripping when he turned to Buffy. “Better?”

“I suppose,” Buffy said grouchily.

“Good.” Spike took his towel and spread it out over a soft patch of moss, right next to the flowing water. “Come here.” Buffy walked over to him, dragging her feet a little. Spike rolled his eyes and took her by the wrists, pulling her the rest of the way over. “Now, where were we?”

“I think I was about to kick your ass,” Buffy growled, but then Spike tugged her towel loose, flinging it around her shoulders, and slid his cool hands over her breasts. She gasped. “Or right there. Right there is good.”

Spike sank down to the ground, pulling her on top of him. “There, now, isn’t that better?” He draped her damp towel over her as best he could.

Buffy curled against him, rubbing her chin against his chest. “I thought it was a good idea.”

“It was a BRILLIANT idea,” Spike said soothingly, tangling his hands in her damp hair. “Just don’t get off on you freezing to death.” He kissed the top of her head. “Bring me back here in May, yeah?”

“Roger.” Buffy slid up to kiss him, lazily, trying not to think about the fact that she’d just made a date for hot creek sex six months in the future, which was a lot of _diems_ to _carpe_ along the way. “So, we still have time to kill before the Bronze closes.” She batted her eyelashes at Spike. “What on earth should we do until then?”

Spike looked up at her darkly. “I was promised naked and wet.”

“Yeah, but you vetoed the ‘wet’ part yourself, so tough cookies.”

“Vetoed the creek, love, not the wet,” he said with an evil, evil grin. “Sit up, yeah?”

Buffy sat up, knees on either side of his chest. His stomach was cold beneath her. She wrapped the towel around her shoulders, like a shawl. She was shivering again, but she didn’t think it was from the cold.

Spike curled his hands around the backs of her thighs. “Up more. On your knees.”

Buffy rose up, looking down at him over her hands clutching the towel at her throat, the ring gleaming silver on her finger. He grinned up at her, teeth white in the moonlight, and the next thing she knew he had slid his whole body down, like a mechanic sliding under a car, until his head was between her legs and his cool rough tongue was on her and she cried out in surprise, and then again in pleasure, and he laughed and it rumbled right up through her and she let her head fall back and pulsed up and down above him, thighs quivering, and decided that this was almost as good idea as hers had been. Though actual rapids would definitely have been best of all.

She was going to have to find some. Later.

\---

It was a long time before Spike decreed she was wet enough and allowed her to lay back down on top of him, tenderly fitting his cock to her and gliding inside. By then she was more than happy to rest her thighs, laying her legs out beside his and lying flat on his chest as he wrapped his arms around her and thrust leisurely. She had come again from the ministrations of his clever tongue, watching the stars twinkling through the tree branches, and now that the edge was off, she just relaxed and enjoyed the feel of him moving inside her, his whispered sounds of pleasure, his hands on her back and her hair, and when he came inside her a few minutes later, breathing her name into the top of her head, she tilted her head up and kissed him sweetly and snuggled a bit closer, tugging the towel about to cover as much as possible.

Spike seemed content to lie there as well, smoothing her hair down, but after a bit she could feel his muscles starting to twitch, and could tell he was done with the canoodling and ready to get back to the slaying she had promised. She slid up for another kiss. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah, guess so,” Spike sighed, clearly torn between the lure of violence and Buffy’s warm, naked body. Then he frowned. “Why salmon?”

Buffy flushed. “It was… I pictured… You know how bears catch salmon? Like snatching them right out of the water?”

“Yeah,” Spike said slowly.

“I just figured that was how you would catch fish. If you wanted to catch fish.” She buried her face in his chest. “Except I pictured you doing it naked.”

Spike laughed softly, kissing the crown of her head. “Is that right?” He suddenly wrapped his arms around her, squeezing tight. “God, I love… how your mind works.”

“You do?” Buffy said shyly. “My mind’s not too weird?”

Spike chucked her under the chin, tilting her face up for another kiss. “Yeah, it’s weird,” he admitted. “I don’t understand how you think, not at all. But it’s bloody fantastic.” Another kiss, and he gave her a gentle little push. “Get dressed, love. Got a parade of drunk, stupid sushi to protect.”

Buffy rolled her eyes, but got up, wriggling into her underwear. “Way to make my sacred duty sound lame, Spike.”

“It’s not lame,” he said consolingly. “The populace of Sunnydale doesn’t deserve you, being clueless and unappreciative, but that’s not your fault.” He shook out his jeans, yanking them on. ”You’re brilliant.”

“Well, thanks,” Buffy said wryly, twisting to fasten her bra. She noticed Spike was watching her, and pretended to have trouble with the fastening, arching her back so he got a good view of her breasts. There was a reason she’d gone for black lace tonight. “Spike, could you help me with this?”

“Help.” Spike laughed. “Slayer, you are going to be the death of me.” He stepped up behind, quickly fastening the hooks, then rested his hands on her shoulders.

Buffy leaned back against his bare chest. “I’m not sure it’s on right. Can you check?”

He laughed again, but she felt his fingers tracing the bands and the straps, minutely adjusting their placement. “These seem fine, love.” He slid his hands around to trace the scalloped edges of the lace cups, across the top of her breasts. “Not sure about this bit here.”

“Make sure.”

He cupped her breasts, rubbing the rough lace against her hard nipples. “How long do I have? Because I can be very thorough.”

Buffy slid her hands up to clasp at the back of his neck. “Quality control is very important.” She rubbed her ass up against him. “Be. Thorough.”

He was.

\---

They had to run at top speed to get to the Bronze in time for the departing wave of Saturday-night-partiers, but Buffy reasoned that it was worth it to know that her lingerie was extremely well-fitted. There was also the part where she had been lying face down on the boulder with her fingers trailing ripples in the water while Spike sent ripple after ripple of pleasure through her body, after he had decreed the only way to make things fit perfectly was to take them off and put them on again, and of course once they were off it would be a pity not to make use of all that lovely nakedness, wouldn’t it?

Buffy had agreed immediately.

Then when that was done, Spike had clucked his tongue and dipped his black t-shirt in the water and bathed the little bruises on her knees (from the rocks) and the medium-sized bruises on her hipbones (from the boulder) and the big bruise on her shoulder (from the mausoleum) with the cool damp fabric, tenderly kissing each blemish on her skin, before they quickly dressed yet again and took off at a run, the damp towels and shirt stuffed in her backpack again. Buffy had offered to treat Spike’s bruises – she knew he had some – but he had shrugged and pointed out that cool compresses did nothing for vampires, and she hadn’t pushed it, just resolved to do some bruise-smooching of her own later, when they didn’t have an appointment.

They were not disappointed when they started their alley sweep – Buffy got five or six vamps herself, and she reckoned Spike had kept pace with her, though it was a little anticlimactic; the lurking vampires were the lazy type, of course, and so focused on their staggering victims that they didn’t even notice that they had become prey. Like shooting fish in a barrel.

Shooting fish in a barrel sucked. Especially compared to the bear/salmon thing.

After the first few, actually, Buffy started making it a game to see how much Spike-groping she could get in during the stakeage. It turned out this was quite a lot, and once Spike figured out the game he gave as good as he got, so even though the fighting was less-than-satisfying, the tension building between them was delicious, and when the alleys were clear and the last straggling Bronze patrons had made their way to cabs and cars and safe, well-lit thoroughfares, Buffy giving Spike a final job-well-done nod, it was a matter of seconds before they were up against a chain-link fence, kissing desperately.

Buffy was sure that one of these days they would settle back into a normal level of lust, so that she could actually spend some fraction of her mental energy on things other than planning sex, having sex, and recovering from sex, but that day was clearly not today. And she couldn’t really bring herself to care.

After the first frenzied minute, Spike pulled back just a bit, tangling his hands in the fence on either side of her waist. “This fence isn’t strong enough for us, love.” He was panting, cool bursts of air against her hot lips.

Buffy dove in to nip at his collarbone. “Home?”

Spike groaned. “Too far.” He hiked one of Buffy’s legs up around his waist, grinding against her.

“Oh.” Buffy ground back. “You are so right.” She looked over his shoulder, then shoved him away.

Spike spun around, sinking into a ready crouch. “Demons? Police?” He scanned the empty alley.

Buffy stalked towards him, winding her hands into his shirt and pulling him in for another kiss, walking him backwards. “Abandoned building.”

He glanced behind him, at the boarded up windows and broken steps, and had just enough time for a groan of agreement before they were kissing again, hands frantically tugging at clothing as they stumbled up the stairs, falling with Spike’s back against the door. Buffy kissed down Spike’s chest, fumbling at the door handle. “Dammit, it’s locked.” She caught his nipple between her teeth, through the green shirt.

Spike cursed under his breath, then hauled Buffy up by her thighs. “Right, then.” He heaved into the door with his shoulder; it burst open and he stumbled inside, slamming the splintered wood shut behind him and pressing Buffy up against the foyer wall.

He was doing things to her throat that were incredibly evil, deliciously evil, and she wrapped herself around him and gave in to it, flinging her head back against the wallpaper and clutching at his back, eyes blinking wide to stare at the cracked plaster and dusty wood of the house, not to mention the dozen or more glowing blue demons who were staring right back at her.

At them.

They didn’t look happy.

“Oh, CRAP!” Buffy didn’t even bother getting Spike to stop nibbling before reaching for the knives in her boots – conveniently within reach since her legs were wrapped around Spike’s hips – and then she shoved at his chest until the fact that Something Was Wrong invaded his haze of desire – the knives flailing about under his chin were a subtle hint – and he glanced over his shoulder, at the advancing hordes.

“JESUS H. TAPDANCING CHRIST!” he blurted out, shock and thwarted lust sending him to new heights of profane verbosity. He dropped Buffy and spun, taking a fighting stance next to her in the narrow foyer.

“This is SO not fair!” Buffy wailed as the battle began.

\---

The fight started out fine; the entrance hall was just long enough to bottleneck the blue demons – Buffy was sure they were the same kind she and Spike had fought a few nights ago, in the temple they had been arrested for breaking – so only one or two could come at them at a time, and the first few assailants fell quickly, bodies oozing away to oily spots on the worn parquet. But then Buffy lashed out with a flashy high kick, that didn’t go quite as high as planned because her jeans were too tight (more sexy than slay-ey) and the demon whose head she hadn’t kicked off caught her by the ankle and dragged her into the room, flinging her against the opposite wall with a roar.

The ringing in her ears from the impact was nothing compared to the horrendous beeping coming from her ankle. She automatically brought her hands up to cover her ears, and could see Spike doing the same in the foyer. The blue demons were completely unfazed, and as a trio with huge branching horns surrounded her, Buffy realized they had no ears.

It figured.

“Spike!” Buffy shrieked as she slashed one of her opponents across the abdomen with her knives. He burbled down into the floor. “Get your ass over here!”

“Working on it, Slayer!” Spike shouted back, lunging at an opening only to be pushed back by a fresh wave. “Fuck, how many of these buggers are there?”

Buffy tried to get a head count over the shoulder of her latest opponent. One, two, three… _Dammit!_ From her new angle she could see more pouring out of the basement, and hear feet tramping down the stairs from the floor above. “A lot! Looks like a whole nest!” Her voice hurt from trying to be heard over the beeps. She swore and lunged at the demon’s midsection, trying to work her way back towards the front door.

It took a while, and Buffy could feel her cheek starting to swell from a lucky backhand that had sent her reeling, but eventually she and Spike managed to make their way across the sea of glowing blue bodies until the awful noise cut off, leaving blessed silence, or at least blessed fight-noises, and a moment later they came face to face for a blinding second, something profound and ineffable flashing between their eyes before they spun and set their backs together again in the center of the room.

“Think we may have thinned the herd a bit,” Spike gritted out as he punched another demon across his glowing jaw.

“Yeah, but there’s still too many.” Buffy glanced towards the door, but the path Spike had slashed to the center of the room has since been filled in by snarling demons. “Keep fighting. They don’t stand a chance against us.” Her voice shook a bit from the falseness of that bravado, and Spike darted a look at her.

“You try for the door,” he growled. “I’ll cover you.”

Buffy would have punched him in the nose for that if one of the demons wasn’t already doing her job for her. “I’m not going to just leave you here to die. This room has way too many sharp pieces of wood.” The battle had taken a toll on the grimy walls; there were cracks and craters and protruding studs, and she felt sick, imagining Spike dusting on one of them.

Spike gave her a shove towards the door and leaped up to swing from the chandelier, kicking a demon in the head to clear her path. The chandelier started to pull loose from the ceiling and he dropped back into a crouch, tackling the dazed demon. “Just go!”

“No!” God, he was such a butthead. Buffy took out another demon with her knives, stubbornly refusing to take the opening. And then there was another surge of demons, and they had to stop talking.

They were thinning out the horde, though, and Buffy saw a chance, a chance for both of them to escape, and she flung out her hand to Spike. “Come on!” she shouted, turning her head back towards him, trying to catch his eye.

So she was looking right at her hand when the ring slipped off her sweat-slick finger, flashing and gleaming blue as it shot like a bullet right past Spike’s startled face, bouncing off the chest of the demon behind him, ricocheting off somewhere into the room. She could hear it clinking metallically somewhere out of reach, and her eyes met Spike’s for an agonized moment before she returned her attention to the fight. The chance for escape was gone, but it didn’t matter now.

She wasn’t leaving without her ring.

\---

The fight could have lasted minutes or hours, there was a sameness to the ebb and flow of punch-kick-slash-dissolve that made it seem like it would go on forever, but between one breath and the next, it suddenly WAS over, and she and Spike were staring at each other across the stained wood floor, panting and bruised and quivering with adrenaline and not sure what to do now that there was nothing left to punch.

“The ring!” Buffy grabbed Spike by the shoulders. “Stay here.” He stood in the center of the room and watched her as she circled the edges of the room until the beeping started up again like demented cicadas; she beckoned him over urgently – the beeping cut off again when he joined her inside the field – and they fell to their knees in relief and dug through the wreckage until Spike finally let out a sigh of success, picking up the ring in his pale fingers. Buffy struggled to her feet – she couldn’t see it, but she knew she had a solid bruise across her back from when she had hit the wall, and her muscles didn’t want to cooperate.

Spike looked up at her from his knees, then suddenly reached out and took her hand. “When we get home, you’re going to wrap this with some twine, yeah?” He slipped the ring on her finger.

“Maybe,” Buffy sniffed. He had put it on the wrong finger, the dope, but it felt like the right finger, it just felt right, so she let it go. “You’re not the boss of me.”

Spike lunged to his feet, furious, and her hands met him halfway and balled in his shirt and hauled him up and she kissed him hard, and he kissed her right back, hands clutching the back of her shirt, and then they fell up against the wall, plaster cracking under the impact.

Buffy tangled her hands in Spike’s hair and urged him downwards, and he cursed her, voice tender, and slip his lips down to suck at her pulse, running blunt teeth along her collarbone, and she cursed him right back and pushed his head down further until his mouth was cool and damp on her breast, tongue rasping her nipple through the silky cloth and the rough lace, and she reached up a hand to clutch at the wall, but the wall wasn’t there, it crumbled under her hand and she could feel herself starting to fall, so she shoved at Spike, aiming him at another likely wall, one that didn’t have anything sticking out of it. He stumbled back, eyes wild, and she slammed him up against the wall, ignoring the shower of plaster and the groan of the framework beneath as she yanked his shirt up, licking her tongue in a long stroke up his belly, sucking hard at his nipple. There was a bruise right across his ribcage; she leaned down to kiss it, lips tender even as her hands roughly shoved into the back of his jeans, clutching desperately at his ass.

Spike swore and spun them around, taking control; more plaster dust rained down on them as he ran desperate hands across her breasts and down her body, fingers fumbling at the fastenings of her jeans. “These are too bloody tight,” he muttered, fingers shaking, and finally with a curse he took hold of the waistband and yanked. The button flew off somewhere and the zipper slid open with a rough growl of protest and then he was kneeling again, pulling her jeans and panties down to her knees and ducking under so her thighs were on his shoulders and then he was licking her from back to front in long, hard strokes, tongue unrelenting. Buffy tilted her hips and slid eagerly against his tongue seeking more, the wall under her back shaking and creaking, but she really didn’t need any more foreplay, not after the teasing in the alleys and the heat of battle, she wanted him NOW, and so she kicked and wriggled one leg free of the jeans and then shoved Spike back with her foot so he was flat on his back. She flung herself on top of him, intent on his belt buckle, and there was a huge creak, and a groan of timbers, and the floor collapsed under them.

Buffy panicked as they fell, instinctively sliding her hands around to shield Spike’s heart as she envisioned a basement full of jutting broken two-by-fours, but though they landed hard enough to lose their breath, Spike’s chest was unpierced and Buffy didn’t think they had broken anything, though they surely had even more bruises, but anyhow she knew she wasn’t hurt too badly and from the way Spike was rolling her about on the basement floor kissing her throat she was pretty sure he wasn’t hurt too badly either, not badly enough to stop, and that was good enough for her. She shoved at Spike’s shoulders until he was on his back again and got back to the belt buckle, Spike helping her now as she undid the belt and the button and the zipper, and she took his cock deep in her mouth, just for a moment, just a little hello, and then with a final tender suck at the tip released him and crawled back up his body and took him in, and it was such a relief, finally having him inside her, that she started to cry – not sobs and gasps, just sweet tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, and they both stilled, a moment of peace, the eye of the hurricane. Spike reached up, eyes wide with wonder, and brushed the tears away with his thumbs, and then slid his hands down, and then up, under her torn shirt, and rubbed his damp thumbs right into her nipples, through the lace of her bra, catching his lower lip between his teeth, and she laughed through her tears and bent down for a tender kiss.

But her body was still humming with adrenaline, and from the way his hips were twitching beneath her so was his, at least with whatever the vampire equivalent of adrenaline was, and she sat back up and yanked her shirt over her head, hips rising and falling, taking him in and in and in, deep and hard. Spike wasn’t able to just lie still; his hands wandered from her lace-covered breasts to her hips as he thrust up against her, matching rhythm; he sat up far enough to capture one of her nipples with his mouth, sucking it deep, tongue pressing the lace into her skin while his hands tugged at the hooks of her bra, and then his mouth was on her other breast, no barriers, and Buffy cradled his head close and pulsed against him, and when he closed his teeth gently around her nipple and tugged, she came with a laugh, leaning her head back. She saw stars.

They were real stars, she realized a moment later, because somewhere along the line the rest of the floors and ceilings and most of the walls and even the roof had succumbed to the stresses of battle and sex and were now scattered in chunks all about the tiny space that Buffy and Spike had cleared with their bodies, and even as she thought it, Spike rolled her over, shoving a slab of roofing aside to make space as he drove into her, hands tucked in the bend of her knees and pushing them up towards her shoulders. “Oh!” Buffy gasped in surprise, because even with the twinging bruises it felt just amazing, and she tugged his shirt over his head so she could feel his skin against hers, his chest brushing against her nipples with each thrust. He was looking into her eyes, pupils dark and huge, and she looked up at him and smiled, and curved her hands around his ass, feeling the muscles clenching under her fingers, and said “MORE,” and he groaned and thrust harder, burying his forehead in her sweaty throat, and when he came, shaking and twitching, she ran her hands soothingly over his back and looked up at the stars, at peace.

She knew by now that Spike liked to be tender afterwards, and she snuggled in to him as he stroked his hands over her mostly-naked body and trailed gentle kisses along her shoulder, whispering nonsense into the crook of her elbow, sipping her sweat out of the hollow of her throat, but after a while she became painfully aware that a piece of something was digging into her shoulder blade, and her entire body hurt like it was one big bruise, and she pulled Spike in for one last kiss. “We should head home,” she said softly.

Spike nodded, eyes serious. “Need to get some ice on your cheek,” he said gruffly, sliding his fingers gingerly over the swelling.

They reluctantly disentangled themselves and got to their feet. Spike looked around them at the heaps of destruction, then squinted up at the lack of roof. “Bugger. Did we do that?”

“Us and about four dozen demons,” Buffy laughed, weakly because now that they were done with the ecstasy she REALLY hurt. Her jeans and thong were still dangling from one leg – it was getting to be a fashion trend with her – so she tugged them back on and zipped up as best she could without a button and picked her way through the rubble to where her bra had landed when Spike tossed it away, putting it on without any fanfare, because she was done with rocks and rubble for the day and wanted her nice soft bed. With or without naughty shenanigans. Okay, there would be shenanigans, she admitted it, but with some sleep to follow. She needed some rest.

Spike seemed to have the same idea; his jeans were already all buttoned up, and he looked around until he located his shirt, shaking off the worst of the dust before he pulled it on. He grinned over at her; Buffy realized he had a black eye. “Feel like I should make some joke about bringing the house down, or some such, but having a little trouble thinking straight.”

“Yeah.” Buffy tugged her shirt over her head; it was ruined, but marginally decent. She fisted her hands, curled them up to look at her bruised knuckles. The skull ring grinned back up at her. “Not sure if it’s from what you just did, or a concussion.”

Spike sauntered over to her, limping a bit. “Hmmm. Liked that, did you?” He took her fists, kissed the knuckles. “Which part, eh?” Obviously he was not planning on giving the possible-concussion any credit.

“All the parts,” Buffy admitted shyly, ducking her head.

He was tilting her head up for another kiss when a bright light shone straight into her eyes.

“Holy crap!” That wasn’t Spike, but she knew that voice. It was… it was…

_Goddammit._

Officer Kemp was standing on the steps, playing his flashlight over the piles of destruction before coming back to rest on Buffy and Spike. He straightened and pulled out his gun, training it on them. His partner, a few risers above him, let out a long whistle.

Kemp headed down the steps. “Buffy Summers and Spike, you have the right to remain silent…”

As the handcuffs clicked around her wrists, Buffy could only think of one thing.

The jelly donuts were going to go stale.

What a waste.

 

End Chapter 15

 

 

 

 

 


	16. Complication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a very difficult chapter to write, because it deals with a very unpleasant and triggery subject (domestic violence) that I personally take very seriously. With Prisoners of Love being a smutty romantic farce, I wanted to give DV the respect it deserves as an issue while still keeping the story itself funny and sexy. Infinite thanks to my beta, the_moonmoth, for helping me out with this task in particular, along with her usual excellent beta work. If I have still missed the mark, I always welcome public or private critiques.

Buffy’s first clue that something was unusual about their latest arrest came when she and Spike were buckled in on opposite sides of the police cruiser’s back seat – and the buckles were locked. That was new. She didn’t even know seatbelts could have locks.

“Excuse me,” she said as politely as she could manage under the circumstances. “Why exactly are we under arrest?”

The cop riding shotgun, the one in charge of the stupid-looking antenna-box that Buffy figured was what they used to track the anklets – Buffy knew she should know his name, but she couldn’t think of it right now. Officer Tumnus? No, that was that Narnia guy with the hooves – turned and looked at her with a face of heroic resolve. “Don’t worry, ma’am. We’ll make sure he can’t hurt you again.”

“Wait, what?” Buffy turned and looked around, trying to figure out who he meant. “He who? This guy?” She nodded to Officer Kemp, who was driving, chin stuck at a stubborn angle.

Antenna-box-cop shook his head sympathetically. “Don’t worry, we completely understand. No need to talk now. You can tell us all about it at the station, in complete confidence.”

“Tell you about what?” Buffy wriggled against her bonds, suddenly furious. She hadn’t been condescended to like this since Quentin Travers had come to town, and she wasn’t especially enjoying the flashback. Like these dweebs-in-blue could possibly protect her from the demons and vampires and apocalypses that she faced on a daily basis, not without wetting their blue polyester pants.

Spike stretched out a foot to nudge hers. “Think they mean me, pet.” He raised his eyebrows significantly.

“Hey!” Kemp barked. “Not a word out of you, scumbag!” Spike shrugged, settling back into his corner of the back seat, completely at ease, as if his hands weren’t bound behind him. Buffy couldn’t help but compare it to his snit-fit when she had tied him to a chair, far more gently. She KNEW he had been drama-kinging it up just to get under her skin. Spike was lucky that right now she was still afterglowing a bit, and that the cops up front were twice as annoying as him, but later on she was so going to punish him for that. (There might be whipped cream involved, if her mom had made it to the store.) But she had other priorities right now.

“You have got to be kidding me.” Buffy huffed, glaring at condescending-shotgun-cop. “You think SPIKE did this?” She rolled her eyes. “Like he would ever…” she trailed off. Perhaps that wasn’t the best approach to take, considering how many times he had tried to kill her. She had probably gotten a hundred bruises from Spike over the course of their enmity. More. _But that was before_. She looked over at Spike; his face was inscrutable, intermittently lit by streetlamps as they drove. “Spike didn’t hurt me,” she finally said, grumpily.

Shotgun-cop shook his head in sad disbelief. “Just wait until we get to the station, sweetie.”

Frustrated, Buffy sat back in her seat as best she could with her arms behind her, leaning up against the door so she could watch Spike, who had turned his head to look out the window. She stretched out a leg so she could stroke his calf with her booted toe; when he turned to look at her, she… Well, she wasn’t sure what to do, because she couldn’t reach out or snuggle and she didn’t want to say anything with the stupid cops listening in, but she looked at him and sort-of smiled, and hoped he could figure out the rest of what she couldn’t say, and maybe he could, because he sort-of smiled back and stretched his leg out to meet hers, face lazily sensual in the semi-darkness.

Yeah. Like he could ever hurt her.

\---

The police station felt different tonight, heavy with tension – and how weird was it that Buffy was starting to get a feel for the atmosphere of the police station? – and at first she thought that it had something to do with her, that the whole station was caught up in Officers Kemp and Condescending’s total misunderstanding about her and Spike, but then she realized that hardly anyone was even paying attention when they came through the door. No, they seemed to all be mad at each other.

In the breakroom, a knot of policewomen were arguing in hushed whispers by the coffee machine, glaring venomously at a similar group of clerical staff by the fridge, who were in turn sending vicious looks at a group of policemen who were casually standing by the water cooler, conversing in faux-nonchalance.

They all turned to watch Buffy and Spike’s progress through the station, silently, like they were French aristocrats on their way to a date with the guillotine.

Behind them, the arguments started up again, but louder. When Buffy turned to look, she saw a few people switching from group to group. Alliances shifting. What the hell was going on?

The photographer who took Buffy’s newest mugshot and several other photos of her injuries (the visible ones; Buffy refused to remove any clothing for them to gather ‘evidence’) looked shaken. Her eyes traveled somberly over Buffy’s swollen cheek when she took a closeup shot of the bruise. (Buffy had caught a glimpse of herself in one of the curved mirrors that disguised security cameras; she couldn’t say for sure, but she thought one of the blue demons might have left a visible handprint, like a cartoon.) The officer was wearing a homemade button on her lapel; it said “Team Spenson.” When she saw Buffy looking at it, she looked away, fumbling with the pin and slipping it into her pocket.

Holy crap.

Now that Buffy was paying attention, there were an awful lot of lapel buttons around the precinct.

Buffy did laugh a bit when they tried to split her and Spike up after photography, because she was wearing the ring and so the anklets went off, sending the station’s occupants diving under desks and wildly looking around for danger, but her victory was short-lived, since the next step was the confiscation of personal property, and of course they took her ring as well as her stakes and her knives – funny how the officer in charge of the confiscation didn’t even raise an eyebrow at those – so the beeping cut off abruptly as they took her bin back to the storage shelves.

When they started to escort her and Spike down the hall towards the Special Cell – Buffy didn’t ask for a phone call this time, as Officer Kemp indicated they would need to stay in custody until the precinct psychologist came in at nine to speak to them, and in that case Buffy didn’t see any reason to disturb Giles or her mother, either of whom would be homicidal at crazy-o’clock on a Sunday – Buffy smiled a little in anticipation, because there were a lot of hours until nine and she was definitely interested in walls that could take a beating. But just as she caught Spike’s eyes with a look of promise, her escort – the arrest paperwork said his last name was Thomas, so she’d been close with her guess – stopped walking, hand firm on her elbow, while Spike and Officer Kemp kept going.

“Hey!” she protested, trying to walk after Spike. She was stopped in front of the next-to-last cell; Spike’s escort was unlocking the Special Cell next to it, while Spike looked at her with an odd, wistful expression on his face.

“Don’t worry,” Officer Thomas said kindly. “We won’t make you share a cell this time. He can’t touch you.”

Buffy gave Spike one last agonized look before she was ushered into her cell.

_That’s the whole problem._

\---

With her handcuffs removed, Buffy paced around her cell, trying to calm down. It wasn’t working.

“Spike? Can you hear me?”

“Yeah. Can hear you fine.” There was a muffled squeak, Spike shifting on his cot. (She was intimately familiar with all the sounds of that cot after their last stay; she judged that he had moved from lying down to sitting up on the edge. It had a little less oomph with her not passionately straddling him, but that groan of the center springs was unmistakable.)

Buffy leaned against the cinderblock wall that separated them. “This sucks.” She heard Spike move, like he had shrugged, but he was silent. “Spike, you do know I can’t see you, right? Use your words.”

Spike sighed. “You are absolutely correct, Slayer. This sucks.”

Buffy turned, rubbing her face against the wall; the semi-gloss paint dragged at the skin of her cheek. “Are you sitting on the cot?”

“Yeah.”

“Come closer.” Buffy turned, placing her hand up against the wall. She heard Spike approaching the wall, the denim of his jeans whispering; she imagined that he was right on the other side, his hand up against hers, the wall connecting them. “I can’t believe this.”

Spike’s voice rumbled through the wall; he was right there. “I can.”

“How can you say that? Spike, they think you’re… I don’t know, beating me or something. They think I’m a battered wife.”

There was a long pause before Spike answered. “Don’t see as that’s so unbelievable, love. Wasn’t a week ago, you’d have killed me without a second thought.  And I’d have done the same, weren’t for this chip.”

Buffy pounded her fist against the wall. “That’s different. That was… That’s not what we are now.”

“And what are we now?” Spike’s voice dripped with irony. “I’m still a vampire, and you’re still the Slayer. Last I heard, we had promised each other a death match.”

“We have a truce. We’re…” Buffy pressed her flaming cheek against the cold painted cinderblock. “We’re lovers now.”

“Yeah? And that changes things how?”

“It just does, okay?” Buffy pushed off the wall, stalked on a circuit around her cell. “God, I can’t think. This is so stupid.”

“Calm down, Slayer. They’ll let us out soon enough. There’s not a lot they can do, is there?” Spike laughed shortly. “Think they’ll give us another set of jewelry?”

“I don’t want them to think that about us!” Buffy said sharply. “I’m not a victim.”

“That you most certainly are not.” Spike’s voice was conciliatory. Soothing.

Buffy stomped around her cell one more time before ending up at the corner where bars met cinderblock, where she thought she could hear Spike the best. “Where are you?” she said, hating how small her voice sounded.

“Right here, Slayer.” From his voice, he was right up against the bars and the wall too.

“Hang on. Are you right at the corner? Stick your arm out.” Spike’s arm came into view, sticking out into the corridor, fingers wiggling. Buffy snaked her own arm out between the bars. She had to angle her arm just right, but she could at least reach it; she clasped his hand lightly for a moment before pulling back.

“Well, that was just lovely,” Spike snarked. She could practically hear his eyes rolling.

Buffy ignored his sarcasm. “Okay, now sit down. Like, in the corner, with your back to the wall.” She put words into action, sitting down on the cold concrete. Spike sighed again, but indulgently, and she could hear him sitting as well. “Now put your arm out again. Your left one.” She wiggled her own right arm out through the bars, groping behind her until she encountered Spike’s wrist. She slid her hand down to wind her fingers through his. She had to get her shoulder right up to the bars, so she could reach across the width of the cinderblock wall, but once she found the right position, it wasn’t too terribly uncomfortable, if one discounted the hard wall and the hard floor and the hard bar pressing into her deltoid. “How’s that? You comfortable?”

Spike was silent for a long time. Finally she squeezed his hand. “Words, Spike.”

He squeezed back, hesitantly. “Yeah,” he said roughly. “Yeah, I’m all right.”

Buffy thunked her head into the cinderblock. “I don’t want them to think that about you,” she fretted. Though she had to admit, it was kind of weird they had put them right next to each other if they thought he was a danger to her. Must be some Special Cell Special Protocol. Either that, or the arresting officers were complete idiots. Buffy hoped it was the former, because the thought of them doing this to someone who really was a victim was rage-inducing. They were obviously limited by the range of the anklets, but you’d think they would have put ONE cell between them.

Not that she was complaining.

“Look on the bright side, Slayer. I’ve got plenty of bruises, too. Maybe they’ll think you gave as good as you got.” Spike laughed.

Buffy felt cold. Her hand clutched at his. “That’s not funny.”

“What?” Spike sounded genuinely puzzled. “Not like you haven’t ever given me what-for, is it?” He shifted, brushing his forearm against hers. “Punched me in the nose just Wednesday. Or was it Thursday?” His voice sounded tender, nostalgic.

Buffy stared off into space, blankly. “God, it _was_ just a few days ago.” She started to pull her hand away; Spike held on to it tighter.

“Hold on, Slayer.” His voice was hard now. “What’s got your knickers twisted now?”

Buffy tried to pull her hand away again. “You can’t even hit me back. And I just… I’m not the battered wife. You are.”

Spike wove his fingers through hers more securely. “Fuck that, Slayer. Nothing wrong with what you’ve done.” He squeezed her hand firmly. “You’re supposed to be laying into the big bad creatures of the night. And that’s me.”

“Yes, but…”

“Don’t fucking pity me,” Spike said sharply.

”I don’t, I just…” Buffy sighed, but stopped trying to pull away. “We’re not just vampire and slayer any more. We have a… relationship.” She laughed. “I’m not always sure what that relationship is, but… it’s not right for me to beat you up while we’re in it. That’s not who I want to be.”

“Even if I enjoy it?”

Buffy didn’t have a reply to that. What could she say?

Spike went on, voice gentle. “You know that violence gets me off. Watching it. Doing it.” He pressed her hand slightly. “Even having it done to me, by the right person. Dunno if it’s a vampire thing, or if it’s just me, but it’s true.” He sighed. “Just the fact that you could kill me makes me want you more. And you know just how I feel, don’t you?”

“I don’t get off on causing pain,” Buffy whispered.

“I know,” Spike said quietly. “But battle winds you up. Makes you hot.” He shifted slightly against the cinderblock, shirt sighing across the paint. “You’re a warrior. You make love like a fucking Valkyrie. It’s incredible.”

Buffy curled into the bars so she could look at their hands, clasped together. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she said at last.

Spike stroked his thumb along hers, softly, for a long moment before replying, “You’ve got bruises on your knees.”

“Yeah, so?” Buffy stiffened up defensively; his thumb kept stroking, soothingly.

“And on your hips,” Spike continued.

“And on my face and on my back and on my shoulder. I’m one big walking bruise right now.” Buffy could feel her fingers tightening involuntarily.

“Yeah, but the ones on your hips are from me.” Spike’s voice was quiet, not quite apologetic but serious.

“I am pretty sure I wasn’t complaining.” She knew for a fact she hadn’t been complaining, because she had been too busy begging for _more_ and _harder_ and _oh God just like that_ , and possibly being extremely loud in general, because that was what forest creeks in the middle of nowhere were good for. She relaxed a bit at the memory.

“No. No, you weren’t.” That was a definite note of well-deserved smugness, but then he gave her hand a little squeeze and his voice slipped back to calm reasonableness. “Chip didn’t even let off more than a twinge either while I was bruising you up. Why do you think that is?”

“It didn’t hurt that much.” Certainly not in the grand scheme of her evening bruise-stravaganza.

“Chip’s made a bigger deal about a lot less, pet.” His voice changed, deepened, got a bit husky. “No, chip didn’t go off because when I had you over that boulder, when I was inside you, I had my whole body, my mind, every part of me focused on making you feel good. Making us both feel good.”

“Well. That, um… that worked pretty well, there.” Buffy once again cursed the separate cells, because she could use a bit more of that focus right about now. She wanted him to help her stop thinking.

“I know, pet. Could tell by the way you screamed.” That was pure ego, right there, and he stroked his fingers suggestively along her wrist; she shivered. “Dunno how it works, but seems the chip can sense intent – not always, not when it’s neutral or ambiguous, but when I’m dedicated to pleasing you, it can tell.”

“And? I mean, that’s good, because I’m… all in favor of that. The pleasing.” Buffy could feel herself turning red again, but it was easier to talk about sex like this – not looking at each other, just a tiny lifeline connecting them. Weird, but nice.

“So…” Spike slid his fingers down hers, touching the very tips of his fingertips to hers. “That can be the rule. Pleasure.” He stroked gently, just the barest motion against the pads of her fingers. “Anything you do with the intent of bringing pleasure is good.” He slipped his fingers between hers to clasp her hand again. “That’s the advantage of being with me, love. I’m very sturdy, resilient. Practically immortal. You can let yourself go.” He tightened his grip. “Squeeze me as hard as you want. I won’t break. You can make it hurt in all the wrong places, take me on the floor or against the wall or on a bloody bed of nails. As long as what you want from me is our mutual pleasure.”

His voice was hypnotic, deep and sensual, and she could feel her breath accelerating, her heartbeat speeding up. “That… that could be all right, I guess.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Spike said gently. “But you can ask for anything, and chances are I’ll give it to you.”

“How…” Buffy’s voice cracked a bit; she cleared her throat. “How do I know when you don’t want something? Aren’t we supposed to have some sort of code?” _What had Anya called it?_ “A safe word.”

“I can’t think of anything you would want that I wouldn’t enjoy,” Spike said with a bit of a laugh.

“I could really hurt you,” Buffy said in a small voice. “You need to be able to tell me if I do something that hurts you too much.” She swung his hand back and forth, nervously. “And… and you should be able to ask me things, too.” Her voice sank down to a shy whisper. “For pleasure.”

His hand twitched in hers, tightening spasmodically. “Yeah, all right. We can have a safe word.” His voice was unconcerned, light, but his hand was shaking. Buffy clasped a little tighter, smoothing her thumb along his.

“It needs to be something we wouldn’t normally say, um, in the act,” Buffy said, as neutrally as she could while imagining the sort of things Spike might ask of her. Naughty things. KINKY things. God, when was it finally going to be nine?

There was a long silence.

“I don’t know about you, pet,” Spike finally said, voice rough, “but the only things coming to mind are things I desperately want to say to you.” His fingers traced patterns on her palm. “Things I want to DO to you. Things I want to ask you to do to me.”

Buffy groaned, caressing his hand. “Me too.”

“Let me start,” Spike said in a velvety voice. “What do you own that’s made of silk?”

“I have a shirt, it’s black and… No! Safe word first!” Buffy gave his hand a warning squeeze. “Don’t distract me.”

Spike growled in frustration. “All right. Got a category in mind?”

“I don’t know… maybe an animal?”

Another long silence.

Spike sighed. “Kitten. Doggy-style. Going at it like rabbits.” He squeezed her hand, voice dropping again. “PUSSY.”

“Oh. My. God.” Buffy was going to explode. “There has got to be an animal, somewhere in existence, that isn’t associated with sex.”

More silence.

“Platypus!” Buffy finally said. “That’s a totally non-sexual animal.”

“Dunno, love,” Spike said dubiously. “PlatyPUS sounds awfully close to…”

“We’re going with platypus,” Buffy said firmly.  “The platy-part is distinctive enough.”

Spike shrugged, wiggling his fingers slightly. “If you say so, love. A platypus for pain.” He tucked his hand more securely in hers. “Now, about that silk shirt… Long sleeves or short?”

“Long.” Buffy wriggled into a more comfortable position.

“Does it button in the front?”

Buffy nodded shakily, then remembered that he couldn’t see her. “Yes.”

“And it’s black.”

“Yes. Black.” Buffy shifted her legs against each other. “But it’s sandwashed silk, so it looks faded.”

“Ah.” Spike’s fingertips grazed the back of her hand. “Would you wear it without a bra?”

“Not in public,” Buffy said softly. “It’s too thin.”

Spike slid his thumb down to stroke the very center of her palm, tiny delicate circles. She hadn’t realized how sensitive she was there, despite the calluses from crossbow and knife and stake. “We’re not in public,” he murmured. “Would you wear it without a bra for me?” His voice was as light and fragile as a spiderweb.

Buffy swallowed; it seemed like it echoed down the corridor. “Yes.”

He sighed, long and quivery, like he had been holding his breath. “God.”

Buffy slid her thumb down along the length of his, smiling even though he couldn’t see it. She knew he could hear it in her voice. “Do you want to know what else I’m wearing?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

Buffy looked at her legs stretched out in front of her. “These boots. Do you remember them?”

“Maroon leather, yeah? Zipper on the inside?”

“Those are the ones.”

“Yeah. I remember them.” He curled his fingers into hers again. “What else?”

Buffy took a deep breath, let it out. “That’s it.” Spike cursed under his breath. “But you can’t see my… The shirt’s long. It goes halfway down my thighs.”

“But I know.”

“I just told you, didn’t I?” Buffy rolled her eyes.

“Where are you?”

“In my bedroom. I’m standing by the window, looking out.”

“And where am I?”

“Behind me.” Buffy closed her eyes. “I’m waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me to do what?” His voice was eager.

“The… the silk shirt thing.” Buffy gave his hand a little shake, eyes popping open in irritation. “You started this, remember? You asked what I owned that was silk.”

“So I did. Sorry, love. Got caught up in the moment.” Spike sighed gustily. “God, I want to touch you.”

Buffy squeezed his hand in commiseration. “Yeah. I’m not too keen on this jail thing. It’s like they’re trying to punish us or something.” She sniffed delicately. “At least they cleaned recently. It smells like Lysol instead of pee.”

“Small favors.” Spike suddenly wrapped his hand around the outside of hers, cajoling. “You could touch you.”

Buffy looked out at the corridor. “There’s a camera.”

“Really?” She could hear the frown in his voice. “I don’t have a camera.”

“They probably don’t want to look too closely at the Special Prisoners they put in the Special Cell.” Buffy crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out at the camera, just in case anyone was watching.

“Bugger.”

Buffy slipped her fingers through his again. “I still want to know your evil plans for the silk shirt,” she said softly.

“Do you now?” Spike’s voice was instantly deep and sultry again. “How do you know they’re _evil_ plans?”

“They’d better be,” she said. Her voice came out rough, harsh with desire.

Spike laughed raggedly. “So, where were we again?” His voice was teasing.

“Don’t be a jerk, Spike. You know exactly where we were.”

“Got me there.” He was smiling, she could tell. “It’s nighttime, yeah? You’re standing by the window in the moonlight. I’m right behind you, but I’m not touching you.”

“Yes.” Buffy closed her eyes again, sinking into the scene.

“How does the shirt feel?”

“It’s soft. Feel it for yourself.”

“I will. But I want you to feel it first. Rub it across your stomach.” He stroked his thumb on the back of her hand. “Like this. I bet you do it every time you put this shirt on.”

“I do.” The memory of how it felt, silk between her fingers and her skin, swam hazily in her head. She slid her fingers free from Spike’s, glided them up to the inside of his wrist. The skin there was almost as soft as her memory; she stroked in slow circles over the ridges of tendons and silent arteries. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t stay away,” Spike said dreamily. “I put my hands on your shoulders and step in close so I can watch your hands while you touch yourself.”

Buffy laughed lightly. “It’s just my stomach.”

“But it feels good. Doesn’t it?” She could feel Spike’s fingers twitching as she caressed his wrist. She nodded, not caring that he couldn’t see. “Where else do you want to touch?”

Buffy could feel herself turning red again. No matter how familiar Spike was now with her body, putting it into words felt naughty. “My breasts.” Her mouth was suddenly dry. “I slide my hands up.” She suddenly needed something to hold on to. Her fingers rushed down along Spike’s palm and he captured them, clinging tight.

“Your nipples are hard.”

“Yes.” That at least wasn’t imagination; Buffy shifted restlessly, just to feel the tatters of her real-life shirt brush against them.

“Pull the silk tight so I can see.”

“Okay.” His hand twitched in hers, and she took a deep breath, imagining his eyes on her. “I want you to touch them now.”

“All right then,” Spike said harshly.

“Don’t be gentle,” Buffy said suddenly. “I want… I want you to rub them hard.”

Spike groaned, squeezing her hand. “Like this?” He rubbed his thumb firmly across hers in demonstration.

Buffy was panting. “Harder.” He complied, thumb against thumb, and she shuddered.

“What are you doing with your hands now?” Spike whispered.

“They’re on top of yours. Helping.”

“I don’t need any help,” Spike said; she could sense his wicked grin. “Slide your hands down your stomach.”

Buffy could feel it; she whimpered in anticipation.

“You’re wet, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Buffy breathed. She shifted her hips so the seam of her jeans was tight up against her; the pressure made her catch her breath.

“Touch yourself through the silk.” He ran his thumb in a long stroke across her palm. “Like this.”

“God.” Buffy’s hips were pulsing now in rhythm with her imagination.

“The silk is all wet now, isn’t it?”

“Yes…” Buffy’s eyes popped open and she glared at the camera again. “DAMN it.”

Spike’s hand clasped hers gently. “What’s wrong, love?” His voice was like honey. “Too much for you?”

“No. It’s… it’s not enough. This sucks.” Buffy could feel her voice going whiny, but she didn’t care, because she wanted to be standing in her window by moonlight having silk rubbed all over her, not practicing a circus contortionist act just to get her hand held. “Stupid camera.”

“Lie down on your bed, kitten. Under the covers. They won’t see.”

Buffy turned to look at their hands out in the corridor. “The cot’s way over there,” she grumbled. “Wait here.”

“And just where am I supposed to go, then?” His fingers lingered on her palm for a moment before she pulled her arm back into her cell.

Buffy got up, rubbing her sore butt, and stomped over to the cot. It was bolted down, but a good wrench at each leg and it was free, snapped bolts rolling on the floor; she lugged the cot over and shoved it up against the cinderblock wall. “I’ve got my bed. Go get yours.” She wiped her hands off on the rough sheet and pondered logistics.

Spike started to laugh, and kept on laughing as he wrestled his own cot into submission. When the creaks and groans of snapping metal and the cot being dragged across the floor ended, Buffy stood close to the bars, hands on her hips. “Okay, now lie down and stick your arm out again. If you lie on your right side facing the wall and put your head really close to the bars, you should be able to do it.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are extremely bossy?” Spike grumbled, but with a laugh in his voice, and a moment later his cot squeaked under his weight and Buffy could see his arm out in the corridor again, fingers twitching.

Buffy crawled onto her cot then, mirroring him with her back to the camera, and slid her arm out to lace her fingers through his. She couldn’t really claim it was comfortable, with her head tucked in to get her arm angled out right, but it was nice to be lying down, even if the mattress and obligatory pillow were barely softer than the floor, and the blanket at least made her feel less exposed, and as she calmed down after her exertions, Spike’s hand in hers reminded her why all this trouble was worth it. From the new angle they couldn’t quite get palm-to-palm, but she traced his love-line with her thumb, and closed her eyes, and went back to her room. “So. Tell me again what you’re doing.”

“You know what I’m doing.” Spike was still laughing.

“I want you to tell me again.” Buffy’s frustration and hunger made her voice hard, and she felt him quiver at the sound.

“Yeah, all right.” He was silent for a heated moment before he started laughing again.

Buffy laughed along with him, at the ridiculousness of the situation. “Sorry, I’ve never done this before.”

“Slayer, I am quite certain nobody in the world has ever done exactly _this_ before.” He wiggled her hand for emphasis.

“We can stop if it’s too weird.” She held her breath.

“ _God_ , no.” He tightened his fingers on hers. “This is… Well. Are you ready?”

Buffy curled a little more tightly around herself. “Yes.”

“All right then.” He took a deep breath. His fingers pulsed against hers.

Buffy waited.

When he stayed silent, she huffed out a sigh of frustration. “God, Spike. Use your words.”

“Yeah, I was just… Yeah. So. Moonlight, window, silk.” His voice dropped again. “I have my hands on your perfect breasts. Hard. Like this.” He demonstrated with his thumb on hers again.

Under cover of the blanket, Buffy slid her free hand up under her ripped shirt, tugging the lace of her bra aside so she could rub the fabric against her hard nipple, trying to match Spike’s strokes. “Oh.”

Spike’s thumb stilled. “Are you…”

“Yes.” Buffy squeezed his fingers. “Don’t stop.”

He groaned and resumed stroking her thumb, harder. “I won’t stop. Your hands are on top of mine. Do you want it harder or softer?”

Buffy licked her lips. “Harder. I make you touch me harder.”

“I can do harder.” His fingertips dug into the back of her hand. “I’m watching your hands. Slide them down your stomach. All the way down.”

“Yes.” Buffy was shaking as her hand slipped along her belly, down into her buttonless jeans. The zipper growled open as her hand worked downward, between thong and jeans. “God.”

“Are you wet?”

“Yes.” She clutched at Spike’s hand, sliding her free fingers gently against the damp fabric.

“Rub the silk against yourself.” Spike’s voice was shaking. “Just how you want to be touched. You’re in charge.”

Buffy gave herself a firm, long stroke, all four fingers. “OH.”

“Fuck, Slayer. Tell me what you’re doing.” Spike’s voice was thin with desperation.

“I…” Buffy stroked again, shuddering. “I don’t know how to say it.”

“Then show me.” Spike’s hand glided around hers, teasing her fingertips into his palm. “Touch me like you’re touching yourself. But no silk this time. Just you.”

Buffy’s fingers fumbled against Spike’s hand, then she stroked again, one hand on Spike’s cool palm, the other on her pussy, no fabric in the way this time, and she was beyond words, fingers working in tandem for endless minutes as she gasped and whimpered and shook and finally came, a liquid surge against her fingertips as Spike caught her suddenly-limp hand, stroking soothingly.

He heaved a deep, quivering breath. “God, you’re glorious,” he said, voice reverent.

Buffy laughed shakily. “More like ridiculous,” she muttered, suddenly feeling shy again, now that her breathing was returning to normal. She wiped her hand on the scratchy sheet.

“ _Glorious_ ,” Spike repeated, weaving his fingers into hers again. “I’m the luckiest bloke that ever was.”

“Okay. If you say so.” Buffy smiled gently, rubbing her cheek into her bicep. “I like your evil silk shirt plans.”

“Plans?” Spike laughed. “We didn’t even get to the plans part.”

“There’s more?” Buffy lifted her head.

“Yeah. There’s more.” Spike’s fingers traced delicate, calming patterns on the back of her hand. “But not now. You should try and get some sleep, Slayer.” He started to draw his hand away.

She snatched it right up again. “Can we sleep like this?”

“You can’t tell me you’re comfortable,” Spike said, voice incredulous.

“No. I’m not.” Buffy set her jaw stubbornly. “But I want to sleep like this.” She wove her fingers more securely with his.

Spike’s cot squeaked as he shifted. “All right then.”

“Good night, Spike,” Buffy said quietly, giving his hand a last little squeeze.

After a long moment, Spike replied, “Good night, Slayer.”

\---

Detective Erikson was not a church-going man, but today he desperately wanted to convert, preferably to one of those strict religions that mandated no work of any kind on the Sabbath, because he absolutely did not want to be here at the station, bright and early on a Sunday, to deal with THAT ASSHOLE and his obviously-brain-dead wife again. But he was the detective on Spike’s case, both by default and by Chief Benson’s decree, and he couldn’t get out of it now; Benson had called him at precisely eight o’clock to demand his prompt attention to the matter, and when Erikson arrived at the stroke of nine, he understood why.

The entire station had gone insane.

What had started out as a few giggling secretaries passing photos and printed stories around on break had descended into all-out war. Erikson watched as Minnie Valenzuela took someone else’s print job off the copier, dropped it in the trash, and then dumped used coffee grounds over it, muttering something about ridiculous theories and “fanon,” whatever the hell that was. Officer Cordova was arguing heatedly with one of the night-shift ladies – hadn’t shift change been hours ago? – in the hallway; as he walked past, the night shift lady (Patricia?) yanked something off her uniform shirt and threw it right in Cordova’s face. And when he got to his desk, he noticed that Detectives Bennett and Metzger, who had been partners for _years_ , were pointedly ignoring each other; he saw Bennett deliberately drop his half-eaten greasy breakfast sandwich right onto Metzger’s stack of paperwork.

Benson was right. He had to get Mr. and Mrs. Asshole out of the station immediately.

Fortunately, Officer Klaus, the SPD psychologist, had arrived early; a quick check at the front desk confirmed that she was already interviewing Ms. Summers in one of the interrogation rooms, while Spike cooled his heels in the adjacent one.

Erikson collected the latest file of photos and paperwork and headed down the hall, trying to ignore the bickering going on all around him. Jesus fucking CHRIST, didn’t these people have lives? Erikson could think of about fifty things more enjoyable than yapping about some punk reprobate’s love life, including colonoscopies and root canals. Hell, at least root canals involved anesthesia.

He slipped into the dim observation room that overlooked both interrogation rooms through fake mirrors, glaring at the peroxided thorn in his side, who was sprawled in his hard plastic chair in the first room, face bored. Erikson heartily approved of the shiner the bastard had going, only wishing he had been the one to inflict it. He glanced over into the other room, where the little blonde wife was talking earnestly to Klaus. She didn’t look like she could give a black eye to a fly, with those twigs for arms.  The bruise on her face was livid and purple.

He settled in to a chair and started to go through the contents of the file folder.

Photos on top. The ones of the wife were disturbing; she had more bruises than a linebacker after the Super Bowl, and that was just on her visible skin. Erikson stared hard at the one of the handprint on her cheek. Fucking bastard. The photos of Spike he lingered over – the one of the black eye was one he wouldn’t mind framing, or at least sticking to a dartboard, but it was interesting that he seemed as damaged as the girl.

Arrest report. Erikson scanned it once, quickly, then went back and read again with narrowed eyes. _Fuck_. Once again discovered in the middle of destruction, but not in the act of destroying anything. No firm evidence that they had caused the damage – one of the officers had even noted that it didn’t look like the work of a human being, more like a wrecking ball. They hadn’t been fighting each other when the officers arrived on scene, either. Notes from the second cop stated that they were “affectionate and non-confrontational,” which was unlike any domestic-violence incident Erikson had ever heard of; the ones who wanted the cops to butt out usually went overboard on the defensiveness, instead of calmly submitting to arrest and making googly eyes at each other. Description of the injuries. A note that, per recent legislation, the injuries warranted further investigation, but that it was impossible to determine which party was the instigator, or indeed whether the injuries had been caused by each other or by someone else. Something about the way that last bit was written made it clear that the arresting officers were solidly anti-Spike, but had to go along with regs, hence the dual arrest. And there was nothing to back up their opinions. So, fuck-all for evidence. It wasn’t illegal to be bruised.

A separate note from Officer Thomas described how the signals from the tracking anklets authorized by Chief Benson – what the hell were those? – had been somehow cut off in the early evening, and had barely flickered on and off for several hours, during which he and Kemp had parked downtown. There had been a brief period that the signal had come back on, and they had followed it to the neighborhood of the condemned house, but it had cut off again before they were able to pinpoint the building. They had finally found the couple by searching house-to-house. So they didn’t even have a 9-1-1 call or any eyewitness accounts. A note at the bottom stated that the suspects knew that the tracking data – again Erikson was at a loss, but he would take any evidence at all at this point – was inadmissible in court. Of course.

The notes from forensics were even more disappointing. Measurements of the handprint on Ms. Summers’s cheek, the only injury that obviously presented as abuse, did not match measurements of That Asshole’s hands. Not just different-enough-for-reasonable-doubt either; the width and length were off by inches, and the angle of impact would furthermore require the perpetrator to be more than a foot taller than the compact punk. One could speculate about stairs, or kneeling, or other ways to get that angle, but not with the size issue. The conclusion of the forensics analyst was that the handprint had been caused by a seven-foot-tall man with hands like the Incredible Hulk. Not by their only suspect. Furthermore, while the husband and wife had both refused medical care, the opinion of the analysts based on observation of the bruises was that they were well on their way to healing, and were in fact several days old. And tucked under the forensics report were several statements from officers that both Buffy Summers and Spike had been observed the very night before, enjoying a night out at a local hotspot, completely free of injury.

Erikson sighed, dropping the file folder on the ground and planting his foot right on top of it. Zero physical evidence, and a perpetrator who still didn’t exist. Why did they even bother?

He switched on the speaker to hear what Ms. Summers was saying to Klaus.

Her voice was sweet and earnest. “…we just wanted to be alone, you know? Everywhere we go the police have been following us and harassing us, and now that we’re living at home with my mom, we don’t have any privacy.”

Klaus nodded.

“So when we saw the condemned building, we thought, well, nobody would care if we went in there, right? And then right when we were…” She blushed. “Well, the floor collapsed under us. That’s how we got all the bruises.”

Klaus nodded again, then pulled out a photo, placing it in the center of the table. From his vantage point, Erikson could see it was of the handprint. “Did you get this when the floor collapsed, too?” Her voice was gentle and encouraging. Erikson would have gone with a more confrontational approach, but he supposed that was why he was a detective and not a counselor.

Buffy’s hand went up to her cheek, probing at the bruise as she looked at the photo, then looked up at Klaus, eyes resolute. “Spike didn’t do this.”

“You know he can’t hear anything you’re saying in here, right? We won’t say anything to him that might put you in danger of retaliation.”

“I know.” Buffy slid the photo back across the table. “Spike didn’t do it.”

“Can you tell us who did?”

Buffy shrugged, looking away. “Some big guy. He’s gone now.”

“He left town?”

“You could say that.” Buffy looked up again, eyes intent. “He won’t be coming back.”

Erikson switched off the speaker, irritated, and turned back to the other interrogation room.

Spike was staring right at him.

Erikson jumped back instinctively before his brain caught up to the fact that Spike couldn’t possibly be staring at him, he was just staring at the mirror, and when he looked more closely he realized that Spike’s eyes weren’t even especially focused on anything, just blank and pensive. His hands were clasped together on the table, one thumb meditatively rubbing against the other.

The son-of-a-bitch looked different. Erikson stepped closer to the glass, glaring. He was just as annoyingly punk-looking as ever. Ridiculous hair. Different shirt, but no, that wasn’t it either. What was different? Spike was relaxed. Staring off into space. Thoughtful. Little half-smile on his face, like he was remembering something…

_Fuck_. The bastard looked _happy._

Erikson snatched up his file and stormed out of the room. He’d see about that.

\---

A while later, Klaus joined him at his desk, shuffling a huge stack of notes. Erikson glanced around the open room; the rest of the detectives weren’t even pretending to work on their own cases, listening avidly, and it seemed like half the station staff had followed Klaus into the bullpen, standing around the edges of the room. He debated pulling Klaus into one of the private conference rooms, but disgustedly decided to let the star-struck idiots listen to their conversation. Half-heard rumor would do more damage than the truth, and since the clerical staff was all involved in the Spike insanity, the written reports would surely be disseminated within minutes of submission anyhow.

“So. What can I get him for?” He wasn’t going to pussyfoot around. He and Klaus had worked together for years, long enough that they didn’t waste time on unnecessary niceties. She was a good one, straightforward. She also didn’t mind Erikson swearing, which he appreciated in a colleague; some of the staff gave him dirty grandma-looks when he dipped into the blue.

Klaus sat in the guest chair, glancing at their audience. “Are you sure…”

“I’m sure. Spill.”

“Well, the short answer is, I don’t think you can get either of them for anything substantial. But there’s definitely something fishy going on.”

Erikson nodded. “So you caught them in a lie. Stories not match up?” If so, that was actually impressively stupid of them, seeing as the night-shift idiots had put them in adjacent cells where they could spend hours getting their stories straight. _That’s why you’re on the night-shift, nimrods_ , he thought with irritation, and maybe a little smugness, since he himself was NOT.

Klaus settled more comfortably into her chair. “Well, normally, it’s actually quite difficult to tell when a person is lying. There’s been a great deal of research into body language, micro-expressions, all of the little tells that we think will let us know when someone is being truthful or not, but the sad truth is that a person can act nervous or suspicious while still telling the absolute truth. Right?”

Erikson had done enough interrogations to understand that all too well. “Right.”

“That being said… These two are the worst liars I have ever met. Really, just insanely obvious.”

Erikson frowned, remembering the incredible parade of lies Spike had strung together in their first encounter, all that insanity about the 1800s that Erikson had fallen for. “Huh.”

“What’s interesting here is that what they seem to be lying about isn’t what they’re being accused of.” Klaus rifled through her notes. “They are both adamant that the other hasn’t been hitting or abusing them. That the floor of that building collapsed under them when they were having sex.” She glanced up. “Spike said something about ‘blowing the grounsils,’ which I thought was a confession of some sort, but when I asked him further he said it meant ‘shagging on the floor,’ and then advised that no ‘grounsils’ were usually destroyed in the process – apparently they are crossbeams or something else related to construction – but that he and his wife are… here’s the quote: ‘fucking superheroes.’”

“Right. As opposed to fucking idiots who chose a structurally unsound surface for their… What an asshole.”

Klaus gave him a reproving look. “Let’s stay neutral here.” She grinned to cut the sting.

Erikson couldn’t stay neutral about Spike if he was dead, but he nodded sharply.

“So. That all rings true. Furthermore, neither of them has the demeanor or the responses one would expect of a person in an abusive relationship, either individually or together. Even when I administered the Abusive Behavior Inventory, their responses matched, and they seemed very open and honest in discussion of their positive responses.” She looked down at her notes again. “And the responses that are usually danger signs… Well, for example, they both answered positively to their partner ‘pinning them to floor, bed, or wall,’ and also to ‘use of foul language,’ but Buffy added ‘in a sexy way’ and Spike said ‘but not as much as I want her to.’ The overall impression, which they reluctantly confirmed when asked, is that they have a very interesting, possibly rough, but highly consensual sex life, which neither of them is willing to discuss in detail.”

A collective sigh of Confirmed Canon Sexuality spread around the room.

Erikson did not want to hear another damn thing about That Asshole’s sex life, not with the arguments he had been forced to witness while at his desk waiting. He cut to the chase. “But they were lying.”

“Yes, very clearly. But about the strangest of things. For example, the damage to the walls that the CSI team said looked like craters from a wrecking ball. They both denied doing it, even though no human being could possibly have done it. And everything about them – voice, posture, body language, facial expressions – indicated that they were lying. They also gave wildly different descriptions of the man who inflicted that bruise on Buffy’s cheek, and were evasive about his identity and current whereabouts, again clearly telegraphing that it was a lie – but they were both very firm that it was not inflicted by Spike. The same with his black eye; they lied terribly about who might have done it, but were both united and confident in their answers that it had not been Buffy.”

Erikson sighed heavily. “Just sum it up for me, please.”

“Well. I can’t recommend prosecuting either of them for domestic violence or abuse based on the interviews, so unless you have solid witness accounts or evidence to contradict me, I would consider that a dead end.” Erikson swore under his breath; Klaus smiled at him and continued. “However, I do have recommendations related to some other troubling things that came up along the way…”

Erikson was all ears.

\---

Back in their cells, Buffy and Spike sat on their respective beds, hands clasped in the hallway again. (Buffy didn’t even have to order Spike around this time; when she sat in the corner and wriggled her arm out through the bars, there was his hand waiting for hers. Very convenient.)

They sat like that for a while, companionably silent; Buffy closed her eyes, rubbing the back of her neck with her free hand. She was stiff and sore after sleeping on the least-comfortable cot ever in the least-comfortable position ever, but she refused to regret it, because she had had beautifully erotic dreams of silk and moonlight and woken up to Spike gently stroking her fingers, and she was hopeful that they would get to go home pretty soon. She could bow out of the shopping trip – her mom would probably be too mad to shop anyhow – and cover the windows with a blanket and curl up with Spike spooned behind her and sleep until dinner.

That way they could stay up a long, long time after her mom went to bed.

After a while she squeezed Spike’s hand. “So, how did it go for you?”

Spike’s hand lifted hers as he shrugged. “About as well as can be expected,” he muttered. There was a long pause. “How’s your face?”

She poked at it again. “Still sore. For demons that melt away like Jell-O when they’re dead, those blue guys sure pack a wallop.” She squeezed his hand again. “I told her you didn’t do it. I think she believed me.”

“Yeah?” Spike shifted on his cot, springs squeaking. “Buggers should have given you an ice pack for it.”

“It’s not that bad,” Buffy reassured him. “I’ve had a lot worse.”

“Suppose you have.”

Something from the interviews was nagging at Buffy’s brain, and she finally let it spill out. “Spike, are you afraid of me?”

“No, of course not!” he protested immediately.

She shook his hand. “Liar.”

Spike sighed in annoyed resignation. “Bugger. Yeah, sometimes.”

“Why?”

Spike laughed at that, good and loud. “Why? Fuck, Slayer, you’re the one thing in this world I should be scared of. One girl in all the world…”

“Okay, I don’t mean that, then. Forget the slayer stuff. Are you afraid of ME?”

There was a long silence. Finally, Spike replied in a quiet voice, “Yeah. Sometimes.”

Buffy squeezed his hand gently. “Why?” She closed her eyes to take his answer in.

But Spike didn’t answer. Instead, she heard the unmistakable sound of a throat being cleared, on the other side of the bars. Buffy’s eyes blinked open in shock.

Giles was looking at her, face unreadable.

\---

Giles had come accompanied by a pair of officers, who ushered them down the hall in his wake. His tweed-jacketed back was stiff, but Buffy couldn’t tell whether he was mad or embarrassed or just being his usual British self. Buffy wondered how he had known to come – she certainly hadn’t called him.

They were escorted to a conference room, where Officer Klaus and that annoying detective from last time were waiting for them, with a predictable mountain of paperwork.

Buffy and Spike were seated along one long side of the gleaming cherry conference table, with the detective across from them; Giles took the chair next to Buffy. With a glance at Giles to make sure he wasn’t watching, Buffy slipped her hand down to clasp Spike’s. She felt like she had been called to the Principal’s office, which was stupid because high school was behind her and she was supposed to be free of that sort of thing.

Once everyone was seated, the detective cleared his throat and cut to the chase. “Ms. Summers, we have decided not to press charges against you and your husband for this incident.”

“Really?” Buffy let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “That’s great!” She started to stand up.

“On one condition.”

She sat back down, filled with dread.

The psychologist spoke up then, voice reassuring. “We feel that you and your husband would benefit from this program.” She slid a colorful trifold flyer across the table. Buffy picked it up, eyes widening in shock.

_Marriage Boot Camp!_ the flyer proclaimed in cheerful blue letters. At the bottom, under a photo montage of couples gazing adorably at each other, were the words _Ten Week Program_.

The detective spoke up again. “What we really mean is that participating in this program is a condition of your release. Should you miss any sessions, or should the counselor in charge of the program be disappointed with your performance and commitment to the program, you will be immediately taken into custody.” He smiled evilly, eyes on Spike. “During that time you will, of course, complete your restitution, and continue with the monitoring program you have already signed paperwork for.”

Ten weeks. Ten weeks of counseling. Ten MORE weeks wearing the awful ankle bracelets, if she understood him correctly.

_TEN WEEKS._

Klaus gave the stack of paperwork to Giles. “We took the liberty of summoning Mr. Giles, who has in the past acted as your personal representative until such time as you retain legal counsel.” Giles silently picked up the first sheet of paper and started to read. Buffy noticed that he didn’t seem the least bit surprised by the news. Like he had already been told everything. The traitor.

Buffy looked at Spike, who was grinning furiously at the detective; when he caught her glance, he shrugged his eyebrows in a what-did-you-expect expression.

“Giiiiiiles!” Buffy turned to her mentor with a pleading look. What the hell, she was desperate – she turned the Bambi Eyes up to 11. She kept her voice low, but she was pretty sure the jerk across the table could still hear her, from his patronizing smirk. “Can’t you get us out of this? Call the Watcher’s Council? The Powers That Be? Maybe just get all stuffy British on their behinds?” She even got a bit of a tear going – not enough to roll down her cheek, but she imagined it had to be picturesque and moving, kinda brimming over onto her lashes there. “Spike and I can’t go to _couples counseling_ for TEN WEEKS. I have a sacred duty! I have school!”

Giles set the paper down and resolutely removed his glasses, cleaning imaginary dust off the lenses. “I’m afraid it’s out of my hands, Buffy. The constables seem to be unaffected by my, as you put it, _stuffy Britishness_ , and given that I am no longer in the paid employ of the Watcher’s Council, and you have severed ties with them yourself, they are unlikely to use their – admittedly considerable – influence upon the Sunnydale courts. In short…” Giles replaced his glasses, apparently just so that he could glare reprovingly over the rim. “…You and Spike have made your bed, and now you must sleep in it.”

“Gah! No! No beds! No sleeping… with…” _Oh, God, does he KNOW?_

“Ah, yes, perhaps not the best idiom to choose.” From the look on Giles’s face, he wanted to take his handkerchief to his brain and clean that off too. “However, the fact is that your very public… domestic disturbance… cannot go unaddressed. You must face the consequences of your actions. I suggest you use this opportunity to instill in Spike appropriate behaviors to get by in modern society.” Buffy narrowed her eyes, easily comprehending the subtext about her own behavior. Which she so did not deserve… well, okay, she probably did deserve it, but Giles didn’t know about the things she’d been doing to deserve it, he only knew about the slayer stuff, and wasn’t he supposed to be on her side?

Buffy took the flyer and skimmed through it while Giles was reviewing the paperwork, holding it out so Spike could read with her. Relationship-building activities… skits… learning process… building love, intimacy, and change… personal growth experience… meetings every Wednesday… _holy crap._

“Excuse me,” she said in a high voice. “Could Spike and I have a moment alone?”

“Of course,” Officer Klaus said. “There’s an empty office right there.”

Buffy tugged Spike after her – he was still trading vicious smiles with the smug detective – and closed the door of the tiny room firmly. After a moment’s thought, she closed the blinds over the glass windows as well, because everyone in the station seemed to be watching them, and she suspected some of them could read lips.

When she was satisfied of their privacy, she turned and glared at Spike. “What are we going to do?”

Spike shrugged. “Up to you, really.”

“Spike, if we go to this thing… We’re going to have to sit there for hours. Talking about our feelings. Doing… I don’t know, trust falls and skits and crap like that.”

“I’ll catch you.”

“I know you’ll catch me. That’s not the point.” Buffy ran a frustrated hand through her hair. “Spike, we’ll have to pretend to be married. And not like at the Bronze, where we just had to put on a smoochy show. We have to fool everyone there, especially the guy in charge. They have to really believe it.”

Spike looked at her steadily, then glanced away. “I can pretend if you can.”

“Spike, you’re a terrible liar. They’re going to know you’re not in love with me.”

Spike laughed sharply, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’d wager I can pull this one off, love.” He glared at the closed blinds.

Buffy wrapped her arms around herself. “Ten weeks. We’re going to wear these stupid anklets for TEN WEEKS. And then we might still end up in jail again, if we don’t pretend well enough.”

Spike growled something under his breath, stalked over to Buffy, and kissed her hard, hands tangling in her hair.

Buffy melted, wrapping her arms around his neck. God, it had been hours.

When she was hot and panting and clinging to Spike, he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers. “I can pretend well enough,” he said roughly. “Can you?”

“I’m better at pretending than you,” she muttered, then tilted her head up for another kiss. Well, a few more. He might be a terrible liar, but he was a fantastic kisser.

Finally, she pressed her cheek to his chest; he circled his arms around her. “Okay,” she said bracingly. “We are going to go to our mandatory couples counseling for ten weeks. We are going to pretend to be the best, most loving husband and wife Sunnydale has ever seen. We can do this.”

Spike laughed against the top of her head, a little bitterly. “Yeah. We can fucking play pretend.”

Buffy hugged Spike tightly. “Thank you.”

Spike didn’t answer, just laughed again.

Buffy pulled away and smiled encouragingly up at Spike. “Come on. Let’s go sign our lives away.”

He brushed hair back off her face with a wry half-smile, then turned away sharply. “Yeah.”

Buffy slipped her hand into his as they returned to the conference room. If they were going to pretend to be the Couple of the Year, there was no time like the present. Holding hands was a great way to show just how happily-married they were.

Also, she really wanted to.

 

End Chapter 16

 

Chapter 16 Author’s Notes

Office Klaus is named after Elysian Fields member Soaring Claws, whose enthusiasm and instigation was a large part of my starting to write again.

 


	17. Mortification

Buffy had lived through more than her share of humiliating moments in her young life. Being forced to move to a new town after burning down a school building. Having her first time become public knowledge and a topic of discussion among her peers because it turned the jerk evil, in a more-awful-than-typical way. All sorts of embarrassing spell results – why were they all sex- or nudity-related? – and awkward encounters and accidental innuendoes and even the most awful rendition of _Oedipus Rex_ ever performed. (Which had been even more awkward in retrospect when she had finally gotten someone to explain just what the deal was with Oedipus and his mom. _Ew._ ) And that wasn’t even counting all the police-related misery of the past week.

Still, she had to place this particular car ride, Giles silent in the front seat and Spike hiding under a blanket in the back seat while she fingered the marriage-counseling leaflet on her lap, on their way to explain the whole shebang to her mother, in her all-time top ten. Maybe even top five.

They were about halfway home when Giles finally spoke up, his voice determinedly business-like. “So, can I presume that Willow’s spell was less-than-effective in the field?”

For some reason his very neutrality was more embarrassing than if he had been lecturing Buffy about her clear and present skankiness; she pouted out the window as she replied. “Spell worked fine. Just not a big enough radius for patrol.”

“Ah.” There was a world of I-told-you-so in that one syllable. Buffy scowled down at her hand, the chunky silver skull grinning up at her. Under Giles’s observant eyes in the police station, she had put it back on her right hand instead of her left, even though it felt totally _not_ right there. But at least she had it back, along with her knives and stakes. Once she had signed away the next ten weeks of her life, the police had been _very_ accommodating.

She glared sidelong at Giles, suddenly thinking this had to be his fault somehow. “And the ring came off when I was fighting.”

“Perhaps you should have put some twine on it,” Giles suggested. An aura of I-told-you-so was now radiating from Spike’s blanketed form in the back, but Buffy didn’t mind that so much. She had ways of bringing Spike down a peg.

“Didn’t Willow say she could beef the spell up a bit?” Even leaving aside the battle with the glowing blue squatters, the limitations of the dampening field had made patrol difficult.

“Indeed.” Giles was silent for a moment as he steered his crappy little car through a turn. “In point of fact, we have already made arrangements to meet at my flat this afternoon.” He glanced at her. “I merely thought you might wish to… freshen up… before doing so.”

Buffy folded her arms over her tattered shirt and jacket. “You thought _so_ right. I smell like demon goo and Lysol.” _Also possibly sex, but I won’t mention it if you don’t._

Giles thankfully seemed more than happy not to weigh in on the matter of Buffy’s unpleasant aroma, though she thought she heard a snarky little snort from under the blanket in the back. “Yes, well, while you’re showering, perhaps Spike can fill me in on the details of your patrol.”

Spike shifted restlessly under the blanket. “Could use a shower myself,” he said petulantly, voice muffled.

“Yes, I’m quite sure you could,” Giles said shortly. “You can go second. Buffy needs to get out of what is left of that shirt.” Giles gave the rearview mirror a hard look, apparently not caring that Spike couldn’t see him. “And I require a report.”

Buffy was still not certain what Giles knew – he was playing his cards close to the chest – but she was very certain that this was a bad time to insist that Spike shower at the same time as her (so that he could then sneak out of her mom’s bathroom and into hers to shower _with_ her), no matter how much she wanted some snuggle-time. Giles might not be hitting her with a lecture, but his jaw was set and his knuckles were white on the wheel of the car, and Buffy’s keen instincts were telling her he was angry.

Or maybe he just really, really hated driving.

Either way, Buffy wasn’t going to push her luck, and she kept on looking out the window, poking absently at her swollen cheek. This time of year, Sunnydale was scarier during the daytime, because you could really see those inflatable Santas and wishful-thinking snowmen (in the middle of determinedly-green lawns) and Nativity scenes in full color, instead of half-lit by blinking Christmas lights. Buffy kind of preferred the demons and vampires. At least they weren’t implicitly judge-y. They just tried to kill you.

Buffy was surprisingly okay with that.

\---

The door was unlocked, and Buffy slipped in cautiously, opening the door wide and stepping into the dining room so that Spike had a clear path to barrel through out of the sunlight. “Mom?”

Joyce came out of the kitchen, drying her hands with a towel. “Buffy, I just can’t believe that…” She looked up from her hands and her face went white. “Oh my god, Buffy.”

And it was a bit ridiculous after going through the whole painful battle and the humiliation at the police station and the silent uncomfortable car ride with a stiff upper lip, but the second Buffy saw her mom’s face, she felt her own face crumple and she started to cry. Her mom wrapped her in her arms and started to stroke her hair, and it was like she was eight and bawling over a skinned knee again, everything made both worse and better by having her mommy there.

But she heard Spike barreling through the door, the faint sound of sizzling, and Giles’s measured tread behind him, and the door closing, and she sniffled and pulled herself together, because she had to go back to being a big girl at some point, and she might as well get the lectures over with. She pulled back and wiped her face with one of the dangling shreds of her shirt, prepared to be yelled at.

But Joyce directed her voice over her shoulder. “Rupert, you didn’t tell me she was badly injured.” She curled a tentative hand around Buffy’s purple cheek.

Giles sank heavily into one of the dining room chairs, wearily removing his glasses. “I didn’t know,” he sighed. “I didn’t see her until after I had already called you.” He set the glasses on the table, his hand clenching into a fist. Spike was hovering behind him, looking off at the ground, smoke still rising from his hair, looking pissed.

Joyce’s lips pressed together, and she brushed Buffy’s hair back from her face, urging her to sit. “Did the police do this to you?”

Buffy was startled into a laugh. “The police? No, it was just demons. Spike and I took care of them. The police grabbed us after.” Now she was starting to get confused. Wasn’t this the lecture part of today’s episode of the ‘Buffy’s Life Sucks’ show? “It’s just bruises, Mom. They didn’t even break any bones.” Her mom pulled her into a hug again, which, well, Buffy didn’t _mind_ exactly, it just felt weird when she was fresh out of a holding cell and braced for parental disapproval.

Apparently her mom was giving Giles some kind of look over her head, because he cleared his throat uncomfortably. “It appears that the police jumped to some unfortunate conclusions when they discovered the aftermath of the battle.” There was a little thump, as if he had slammed his fist down on the table. “Which they wouldn’t have witnessed had they not been using illegal tracking devices to harass them.”

Buffy wriggled out of her mom’s arms so she could turn and look at Giles. “You’re not mad at me for getting arrested?” Joyce’s hands landed on her shoulders, gently massaging, which hurt because of the bruises but was still too nice to ask her to stop.

“Well, I’m angry that you _were_ arrested, but frankly, anyone would be if they were followed around constantly by constables looking for an excuse. In your case, given the hazards and conditions of your duty, one could even call it inevitable.” Giles replaced his glasses on his nose, eyes hard. “It’s frankly insupportable.”

“But at the station you were all ‘polite society’ and ‘face the consequences’ and ‘sleep in your bed with Spike’ and…” Buffy flushed. “You know what I mean.”

Giles sighed. “Buffy, the Slayer operates _outside_ the law, but not _above_ the law. It’s a fine distinction, but an important one. Ideally, your efforts and those of the police work in tandem to protect human society from both external and internal threats. It would be as pointless for you to worry about ordinary burglary or traffic control as it would be for the authorities to attempt to halt an apocalypse. In point of fact, the primary reason for the extended reach of the Watchers Council is to facilitate this, handling the points of friction where the Slayer’s duty conflicts with ordinary law enforcement. It is not always a swift process, as I am sure you are aware, but over time the Council uses a combination of legal paperwork and magical remedies to ensure that the Slayer is free to work.” He smiled ruefully. “Did you never wonder why, in the course of your recent arrests, none of your previous run-ins with the police have come up during questioning? If you were to look at your permanent police record, you would find no record of Ted, or Kendra, or even the incident with the Deputy Mayor, and you would also be unable to find any officers or detectives with any recollection of your involvement in those events. Officers resistant to memory spells are frequently transferred to other jurisdictions, or find their personal circumstances require them to move out of state.”

Well. She was getting a lecture after all, but Buffy would take a pedantic lecture over a behavior lecture any day. “So when I told the Watcher’s Council to take a hike…”

“You also denied yourself certain legal protections.” Giles sighed. “While Faith was active in Sunnydale, they continued to some extent by default, until her actions set her against them as well. You saw the results of that; should Faith ever awaken from her coma, she will find an arrest warrant awaiting her, and likely worse consequences from the Council itself. Truthfully, I have been able to manage most of the day-to-day legal issues by way of a few allies in the Council, but recent events have been far too high profile for us to work under the radar. I would not expect Quentin Travers to approve any measures to mitigate this situation in the near future. Indeed, I suspect the pillock is rather enjoying the news. However, I believe that eventually the Council will take some sort of action.”

Buffy brightened. “So does this mean I don’t have to do ten weeks of happy fun indoctrination camp?” Spike was watching her from past Giles’s shoulder, face unreadable.

“I’m afraid it’s not so simple, Buffy.” Giles rubbed his temple wearily. “It is possible that at some point in the future, we will be able to expunge this entire series of unfortunate events from the records and memories of the police. I have been exploring other legal actions that might perhaps accelerate the process. However, in the short term we have really no choice but to go along with the requirements of the authorities.” He shrugged, face resigned. “Things would merely be further complicated by making a scene.”

Spike snorted behind Giles. “Wankers.” He was stalking from one end of the dining room to the other, looking ready to explode.

Giles cast him a disgruntled look. “Indeed.” He looked pointedly at his watch. “Buffy, perhaps this would be a good time to shower and change, as we are due to meet Willow at my flat in an hour.”

Joyce’s hands tightened slightly on her shoulders. ”Would you like some tea, sweetie? Maybe chamomile?”

Okay, that was enough pampering. “Mom, I’m fine. Tired and annoyed and stinky, but fine.” She met Spike’s eyes over Giles’s head. “Well. Maybe some hot chocolate. When I come down.”

“I’ll go get it started.” There was a hard tone underlying her sweet Mom-voice that Buffy suspected was directed at Giles, because when she turned to face her again, her mom’s eyes were soft as she caressed Buffy’s bruised cheek again. “Did you need anything else?”

“No, I, um, brought all my shower stuff already.” Though she had a feeling she would never be able to smell her shampoo again without remembering Spike making love to her against the tile wall. Which probably wouldn’t work as well in their home shower. Her mom would definitely notice if any of the tiles fell out.

They would just have to be careful later on.

Buffy headed up the stairs to shower, leaving an uncomfortable silence behind.

\---

Buffy showered quickly, because she had been right about the shampoo-smell bringing up images that made her wish Spike were there to soap her up good, but since the chances of that happening right now were about nil, she settled for a slightly reminiscent scrub, a little planning for later in the evening, and a little extra time picking out fresh clothing – she was running out of red things, until she made it to the dry cleaner’s, but she thought Spike would appreciate how she looked in green, even though it clashed a bit with her purpling bruises. Not that it mattered what he thought, necessarily, but making him hot made her feel powerful, and she liked the look he got in his eyes when he wanted her but couldn’t say anything; she thought she looked just right for stirring him up in front of the Scoobies. She added in a pair of silver stud earrings that she thought matched the tone of her ring – they had left it in the car to avoid the seven-foot problem – because… well, because. The fact that any outfit she wore had a fifty-fifty chance of getting shredded by the end of the night was no excuse to mix her metals. She took the box of stale jelly donuts with her, grumbling a bit at the waste.

As she came to the top of the stairs, though, she could hear Giles talking to Spike in a hard voice, and she paused. She didn’t think Giles and Spike had a talking-relationship, did they? Though maybe they had a lecturing-relationship. Giles liked those.

Giles’s voice was sharp but low, full of contained fury. “…That’s not what I call protecting her.”

Spike’s voice was just as low, but defensive. “Didn’t say anything about protecting the slayer. Said you’d pay me by the head. Bashed a ruddy great lot of them in last night.”

“Convenient that there’s no way to verify your numbers.”

“What, slayer’s face not enough evidence for you?” There was a hitch in Spike’s voice as he said that, a shift in pitch.

“I shouldn’t pay you a bloody thing.” _Pay?_ Buffy sat down on the top step, trying not to breathe. She could hear her mom in the kitchen, the soft thunk of the wooden spoon against the metal pan as she stirred, and the smell of chocolate was wafting up the stairs. Giles was paying Spike?

“Then sodding don’t. Just don’t expect me to report.” There was a rustling of leather, as if Spike was pacing, his duster brushing against the dining room chairs. “Tried to get the slayer to leave. She wouldn’t.”

There was a long silence, then Giles sighed. “Spike, she could have died last night.” His voice was grey and resigned. “Those bruises…”

“She didn’t!” Spike was almost shouting, but he dropped his voice again. “Wish I could take the credit for it, but she’s bloody unstoppable. Blew through those blue buggers like they were sodding tissue paper. All I could do to keep up with her.” There was a note of admiration in his voice that made Buffy smile, even though she was vaguely pissed off that Giles was paying Spike money for something having to do with her. Though probably not the sex. She hoped. _Ew._

“Spike, are you…?” Giles trailed off before finishing the question, and there was another silence, heavy. Buffy could almost picture them facing off across her dining room table. She wondered what look was on Spike’s face. “Well,” Giles finally said, voice hard. “I wouldn’t harbor any expectations, if I were you.”

Spike laughed bitterly. “Know my place, watcher. Not a fool.”

“That is a point I could debate with vigor, were it remotely worthy of my time.” Giles sighed. “So, back to your estimate…”

That sounded like a boring conversational direction, not worth eavesdropping on, so Buffy stomped down the stairs and breezed into the dining room. Spike looked a little bit guilty, but Giles just looked affectionately exasperated, which was his usual look, so Buffy decided it couldn’t have been too big a deal. “Spike, your turn. Go get clean.” She lifted her eyebrows in a suggestive look, because she didn’t want to be the only one with naughty shower thoughts.

Spike flicked a glance at Giles. “Was still telling watcher here about last night.” His eyes when they came back to her were hot. Naughty shower thoughts ahoy.

“I’ll take it from here. Giles can fill me in on what he already knows.”

Spike glanced at Giles again then brushed past her, inhaling deeply as he passed. Buffy couldn’t blame him; she wanted to smell her own hair for the memories it brought up, his fingers on her scalp and the loofah and the tile against her back and… Oh. Giles. She turned to him with a brilliant smile. “So. How far did Spike get? Did he tell you about the fifty bazillion blue guys?”

Giles rolled his eyes.

\---

When they arrived at Giles’s apartment, Xander and Anya were waiting outside, Xander balancing a pair of donut boxes; he looked slightly ill, while Anya looked smug. So, the usual.

Anya didn’t waste any time on diplomacy. “Wow, you look awful. Did you get run over by a bus?”

“Something like that,” Buffy shrugged, deflecting further discussion by gesturing at the donut boxes. “What, no pizza?” she joked, feeling a bit guilty when Xander’s face got even greener.

“Don’t mind him, he’s a little bit hungover.” Anya’s voice was bright and cheerful, but quieter than usual; she stroked Xander’s hair off his forehead solicitously. “I wouldn’t mention the P-word again, if I were you.”

Spike smiled evilly from his patch of shadow. “What, does the thought of anchovies and double pepperoni make his poor little Xander tummy come over all queasy?” Buffy gave him a stop-making-things-worse glare; Spike grinned back as if it had been her come-do-me-now glare, which, well, they _were_ kind of similar, she supposed, but Spike should be able to read the atmosphere. Context mattered.

Xander let out a little burp, glaring blearily at Spike. “Shut up, Microchip. This is all your fault.”

Anya gave him a reproving look. “Now, sweetie, we talked about this.” She smiled apologetically at Spike. “He would be more charming with the banter and all if he weren’t about to vomit explosively.”

Xander sulkily looked off at the corner of the courtyard.

Giles cleared his throat, making his way through the knot of Scoobies to unlock his door. “I have it on reliable authority that week-old chocolate chip cookies are an excellent way to settle one’s stomach.” He cast Xander a narrow look out of the corner of his eyes. “However, should you feel the sudden urge to, er, _purge_ , I must request that you make use of the lavatory. I just had my carpets cleaned.”

“Sure thing, G-meister.” Xander headed towards the kitchen.

“Call me that again and I’ll start frying kippers,” Giles said unsympathetically.

Xander replied with a groan, filling a glass with water and dropping in a double dose of Alka-Seltzer tablets.

Buffy flipped open the first donut box, then the second. “What, no jellies?” Xander made a strangled noise as he quaffed his fizzy glassful of relief.

Anya shook her head mournfully. “Also on the hangover no-no list,” she said briskly, though with a bit of an eyeroll that said even she didn’t quite believe it.

“Jelly donuts are evil,” Xander said from the kitchen. “The most perilous of all the pastries. They tempt people into doing evil things.”

Buffy couldn’t really argue with that. She picked out a Boston Cream instead and headed over to perch on the back of the couch. Spike followed – they had gotten good at staying within seven feet in non-combat situations – and settled on one of the stools, watching her surreptitiously as she ate. Boston Cream donuts were also kind of evil, she thought, locking eyes with Spike as she licked some chocolate off her finger. Mmmm. Definitely evil.

Giles glared at the boxes, then at Xander. “I thought you liked jellies. You certainly have eaten more than your share of them in the past.”

“I have seen the light,” Xander said stubbornly. “I’m a born-again anti-jelly crusader.”

Giles sighed, plucking out a cruller with a disgruntled air. “You know, some of us here are capable of facing the peril of jelly donuts without succumbing to temptation. You could let us face the peril for ourselves.”

“Nope. Too perilous.”

Buffy couldn’t help but look at Spike again; he was drinking from his flask, face exaggeratedly innocent.

“Um, hey guys.” Willow was standing in the open doorway, face hesitant. Behind her was another girl, head ducked down so all Buffy could see was a zigzag part in blonde hair and a pair of huge, wary eyes.

“Willow!” Buffy licked the last bits of frosting and custard off her fingers and wiped them on her jeans, standing up. “Is this your friend?”

Willow flushed. “Yeah. My friend.” She bit her lip, then turned to the girl by her side, taking her hand gently. “This is Tara. Tara, I told you about Buffy, right?”

Tara nodded, a crooked little smile flitting across her face. “N-nice to meet you,” she stuttered. She had nice eyes, Buffy decided. A little sad, and definitely nervous – she wondered just what Willow had told her about the slaying and the Scoobies, because Buffy couldn’t think of a way to explain it all that _wasn’t_ terrifying – but there was something resolute there too. Like she knew who she was, deep down where it mattered most.

Buffy smiled gently, trying not to look intimidating. “The pleasure’s all mine,” she said. “Willow says you’re a really powerful witch.”

Tara looked at the ground again, sending Willow a shy sidelong look through her lashes. “Not that powerful,” she murmured. “Willow’s the one who’s really amazing.”

“She is, isn’t she?” Buffy laughed, and Tara smiled up at her a little less fretfully.

Willow jiggled Tara’s hand a little. “Oh, sure, like I came up with that shield spell all on my own.” Her voice was teasing, with a little undercurrent of pride. “Come on, let me introduce you to everyone else.”

They made the rounds of the room, Giles and Anya and Xander, and finally ended up in front of Spike, Willow falling silent as she visibly tried to figure out what to say. Finally, she just sighed and waved a hand. “And this is Spike.”

Tara’s eyes narrowed as she looked at him, and then she squinted just a bit, eyes going a bit unfocused. “Oh,” she said suddenly. “ _Oh._ ”

Willow looked over at her, lips curving enigmatically. “You can see it, right?”

“Yes,” Tara said hesitantly. “But I’m not sure what it is I’m seeing.” She glanced over at Buffy again, frowning.

“Spike’s a vampire,” Buffy said with a shrug, folding her arms. Spike cocked his scarred eyebrow at her sardonically. She just looked back at him, eyes steady. _Better to be up-front about it,_ she thought firmly. _Not like his presence is negotiable._

Tara looked at Willow, her face unreadable. “You have a demon for a friend.”

“Not her friend,” Spike said hastily. “We’re just acquaintances. Got a truce.”

Willow looked suddenly terrified. “I should have told you. Oh my god, is this a deal-breaker? That I’m on a first-name basis with a creature of the night?”

“No!” Tara said quickly. “No, it’s… It’s okay. It was just a surprise.” She glanced between Spike and Buffy again, lips curving in a secretive smile. “It actually makes a lot of sense now.” She turned to Spike, shoulders firm with resolution. “It’s good to meet you.”

Spike nodded in reply, a little knowing smile on his face. “Likewise.”

With a sigh of relief, Willow looked over at Buffy. “Tara can read auras,” she grinned proudly. “It’s really cool.”

“Really?” Buffy suddenly felt self-conscious, because she hadn’t even known she had an aura that could be seen. It was disconcertingly like discovering she had been walking around all day with her underwear showing. “What does my… um, what do auras look like?”

Tara waved a hand in the air vaguely. “Like, um, color and light, but strands, sort of woven together and stretching out, and they move and dance, and it’s kind of like music too, like chords and chimes, and sometimes there’s a little bit of smell to it…” She flushed, looking down again. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”

“No, that’s okay.”

Tara looked up at her then, through her eyelashes. “Yours is really beautiful. Bright.”

Willow squeezed the hand she was still holding. “I could have told you that.”

“Oooh, what color is my aura?” Anya interjected, eyes huge.

Tara smiled shyly. “Mostly red and pink, with a hint of grapefruit.” She squinted a bit. “Maybe a little bit of indigo.”

Anya settled back in her chair, looking satisfied.

Giles had perked up a bit during the talk of auras. “Fascinating. Have you read Sir Colin Free’s treatise on the subject of auras and aural photography? He’s done some in-depth research into the implications of the various colors…” He turned to the nearest bookcase, starting to run his hands along the book spines.

Buffy tried not to roll her eyes, seeing as Giles had spared her the skanky-Buffy lecture, but it was hard. “Giles, can we hit the books _after_ we fix up my ring? You know, what we’re all here for?”

Giles reluctantly turned away from the bookcase. “Quite right, quite right.” He gave Tara a hopeful smile. “Perhaps after?”

She looked terrified again. “Yes, sir.”

“You don’t have to,” Willow reassured her. “But Giles isn’t… He’s okay. Okay?”

Tara nodded sheepishly.

Buffy rubbed her hands together briskly. “So, time to pester some mortle?” She loved her friends, and Tara seemed nice enough, but really. Priorities.

“I am pretty sure that is not the right verb for what we need to do,” Willow said seriously, giving Tara’s hand one last squeeze before starting to gather ingredients. “Or the right noun, for that matter.” Tara settled down next to the stone mortar, removing some crystal pendants and setting them aside.

Making the mixture seemed to go more quickly than the day before, with Willow measuring each component before handing it to Tara to be added, and both of them taking turns at the pounding. When Buffy leaned over to watch, Willow grinned up at her. “We both need to handle each of the ingredients before adding them,” she explained over the thump of the pestle. “It binds all the energies together so that when we do the spell together, it flows right.”

“Huh.” Buffy wandered back to where Spike was leaning on his stool, watching the witches with a faintly amused, almost indulgent expression. She reached around him to snag another donut – letting her hair waft in front of his face – and smiled when he took another deep breath. “So, Spike,” she said nonchalantly, sliding onto the stool beside him. “Enjoy your shower?”

He shrugged, still watching Willow and Tara. “Had better.” He slanted her a quick glance. “Hope you don’t mind that I borrowed your shampoo.”

“Depends on what you did with it,” Buffy grinned.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he purred, and Buffy really did want to know, she wanted him to give her a play-by-play description, perhaps with diagrams and a hands-on demonstration, but Xander was just behind them, on the other side of the counter, still letting out an occasional burp, and she didn’t want him listening in. Also the burps were kind of killing the mood. Well, not _killing_ per se, as it would take buckets of ice water to cool her down – witness the steam – but making the mood less moody.

Spike shifted on his stool. “So, thoughts?”

“On the shampoo?” Too, too many.

“On Willow’s new b… _friend_.”

Spike cared about Willow’s friend? That was weird. But maybe he was just making small talk, since the proximity of various Scoobies and a stone-faced Giles limited their choice of topics. “She seems nice. Also surprisingly unfazed by us, including you, which is definitely an accomplishment.” She shrugged. “Having another witch around would be useful.”

Spike nodded slowly, eyes thoughtful.

Buffy sat silently for a few moments, then turned to him, feeling determined. “Tonight.” She cast her voice low, for his ears only.

He slanted her another sidelong look, taking a drink from his flask. “Yeah?”

“We’re not going to patrol. I’m taking the night off.” She took a deep breath. “Come to my room when mom is asleep.”

“You sure?” He wasn’t looking at her, but she could feel him suddenly vibrating like a harp string.

“Yeah. Today has been… well, _today_ , and I need…” She glared at him. “We have unfinished business.”

He shrugged, the very picture of badly pretending not to care. “All right then.”

Buffy smiled as he twitched his duster closer around him. She could read him like a large-print book. And, well, some things were hard to miss.

 _Hard_ to miss, her naughty brain repeated. Just because.

\---

Spike watched as the witches mingled hands and sprinkled the mixed powder out into a circle around the ring. Were the Scoobies _blind_? The redhead had been doing everything but snogging her girlfriend right in the middle of the floor – even now, they were taking every opportunity to stroke each other’s fingers – and everyone, Buffy included, was just watching like it was fucking Sesame Street instead of foreplay. He was unaccountably pissed off at her for it.

He, on the other hand, kept thinking about _Buffy’s_ fingers – in his hair, on his chest, wrapped around his cock, on _her_ chest, sliding between her legs, fingers tangled in his as she got herself off… Well. Fingers were sexy, was all. He watched Willow and what’s-her-name jealously, wishing he could just reach out and grab Buffy’s hand right here. Kiss every one of her fingers, down to the knuckle, kiss her right in the center of her palm, her sturdy wrist with its fragile tracery of pulsing veins…

He almost missed that it was time to cast the spell, until Buffy elbowed him in the side and dragged him over to stand on the stairs.

As before, Giles read the words from the book, while the witches knelt on opposite sides of the circle, dusty hands clasped on the ground on either side as they looked deeply into each other’s eyes and repeated the words in low, fervent voices. Their foreheads leaned in to each other, then met over the circle, both girls looking down at the shiny ring now, hands clutching even tighter.

This time, though, when the last words were uttered, there was nothing so tame as a sizzle. It was a shockwave, powerful enough that Spike almost expected his heart to start beating again. Every light in Giles’s flat popped and went dark, and Spike rocked back from the force of it; Buffy fell back into him, the contact electric, and Spike almost came in his jeans from the rush of desire and fulfillment. From the little gasp Buffy let out, he wouldn’t be surprised if she _had_ come – she was a firecracker, his girl – and she leaned into him hungrily before struggling back upright, her hair crackling like fire. He set his hands on her shoulders, because he had an excuse now, and squeezed gently.

 _Fuck_. How early was Joyce likely to turn in tonight?

Willow was staring at her girl with wide eyes, panting like she had run a marathon, or – Spike thought this was actually a more likely analogy – just come down from the most fabulous fuck of her life, and the new girl was staring back like she had seen the face of god, and the room was silent and dim for a long, charged moment.

Then Giles abruptly slapped the heavy book shut, and that seemed to be the cue for everyone to start breathing again. Even Spike felt the need for some cleansing oxygen. Possibly a smoke.

Willow sheepishly disentangled herself from her lover and picked up the ring, turning it over and over in her hands before tossing it to Spike, who slid it right onto Buffy’s hand. Her _left_ hand. He didn’t fucking care who saw. He tucked her trembling fingers into a fist, then brushed past her before he became a sodding embarrassment to himself, his family, and vampires everywhere. “Let’s test it out,” he said, his voice coming out rough. Buffy nodded jerkily, eyes warily fixed on Willow.

Xander was blinking owlishly. “What _was_ that?” He didn’t look sick anymore.

Willow was looking at her girl again. “Magic,” she said softly.

With an irritated sigh, Spike crossed the room to the stools, turning and looking back at Buffy on the stairs. He hoped he looked pissed off instead of shaken to the core. “How far is this? Three yards? Four?”

Buffy nodded slowly, but not especially comprehendingly. “Um, I guess so. My brain doesn’t want to make with the braining right now.” Her brow was furrowed and she was still watching the witches. So maybe she could get a clue when her pretty little nose was rubbed in it. Would wonders never cease?

Spike rolled his eyes and headed partway down the hall. “How about this?”

When Buffy didn’t answer, Giles sighed. “That’s six.” He shifted his glance to Willow. “Extraordinary.”

They kept on pushing the distance, until finally Buffy went to the top of the stairs and wedged herself in the far back corner of Giles’s bedroom. “Spike, go to our… um, the spare bedroom and go in the corner. As far as you can.”

Spike stomped on down the hall, happy to leave the living room. Six Scoobies and one enormous elephant were surely well over the occupational capacity of the cramped flat. The anklet didn’t go off, even when he stuck his leg back behind the heavy wardrobe that occupied the corner, and he cracked the window and pulled out his smokes while he was there. _Fuck_ , but that had been something. Even that thick-skulled lout Xander had been affected.

He didn’t even turn when the door opened and shut. “How far you reckon that was? Seventy-five feet? A hundred?”

Buffy’s voice was small. “I don’t know what to do.”

Spike shrugged. “If you want to test longer distances, you’ll have to be the one to go outside. Don’t fancy a suntan.”

“ _Spike._ That’s not what I’m talking about.” Buffy started pacing in front of the door, hands clutching each other nervously. “What am I supposed to do?”

He flicked his butt out the window. “Suppose you’re talking about Willow and her bird.”

Buffy looked confused. “What bird? I’m talking about Willow and her _girlfriend_.” She clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh my god, I really just said that. Willow has a girlfriend.”

Spike raised his eyebrows. “So it seems.”

“Spike, I don’t know what to do.” Her eyes were huge.

Fuck it, he didn’t have enough nicotine in his system for this; he tapped out another cigarette. “So I have gathered.” He lit up, taking a deep drag. “You asking me what to do?”

Buffy looked taken aback. “No.”

“Good, ‘cause I’m not some magical fairy guru here to save the world with the power of sodding friendship.” That startled a smile out of her; he took another deep drag, eyeing her speculatively. “So what _are_ you doing?”

Buffy wrapped her arms around herself, clutching her elbows, and laughed. “Just freaking out. A little.”

Spike gave a little shrug of acknowledgment as Buffy drifted over to look out the open window. “Suppose that’s to be expected, finding out you don’t know someone as well as you thought. That she’s doing things you don’t approve of. Gone off the reservation.” Bloody buggering fuck, was it possible for a vampire to dust from fucking _irony_?

“It’s not about approval,” Buffy murmured, pouting a bit.

Spike smirked at her. “Is that right?”

“It’s not!” she insisted. “It’s… I don’t know what it’s about.”

“Well, there’s a surprise,” Spike groused, looking out the window again. “Look, way I see it, Willow’s figured something out about herself. You can accept it, or you can go tell her to bugger off. None of my fucking business.” He regarded the cherry of his cigarette sullenly, realizing that it was his business, and he did actually care, was on pins and needles wondering which way Buffy was going to jump, and how fucking infuriating was that? Fucking Scoobies.

Buffy was silent for a long moment, long enough to worry him, and finally he flicked a glance up at her face. She was looking out the window at the sunlight, a little frown on her face.

“Yeah,” she said finally. “I should go do that.” She pressed a sudden kiss to the corner of his mouth and walked purposefully out of the room.

Spike took one last shuddering lungful of smoke, closing his eyes, before pitching the cigarette into the flowerbed outside and following her.

Just like a fucking puppy dog.

\---

Buffy made her way out to the living room. Xander was lying down on the couch now, a damp washcloth on his forehead, while Anya fussed over him, and Giles was scribbling figures on a piece of paper at the kitchen counter, frowning prodigiously. Somewhere along the line Willow had taken both of Tara’s hands in hers and was just looking at her, eyes tender.

God, it was so _obvious_ now. Buffy felt awful.

Taking a deep breath, she walked up to tap Willow on the shoulder. Willow turned shining eyes to her. “I told you she was powerful!”

Tara was blushing now, looking back at the ground. “It’s not me,” she said quietly. “It’s us.”

Buffy suddenly pulled Willow into a hug, a tight one, because she didn’t want to lose her, she really didn’t.

“Um, wow,” Willow said, happily but a bit squeaky. “Breathing now.”

 “Whoops. Sorry, Will. Got a little carried away.” Buffy let her go with an awkward smile.

“Not a problem. I didn’t need those floating ribs anyhow.” Willow was still puffed up with pride, which just made Buffy feel worse. She was the worst friend ever.

She took a deep breath, let it out in a rush. “Um, Will? Can we talk for a sec?”

“Sure!” Willow smiled briefly at Tara and let Buffy pull her over by the stairs. Tara wandered over to the bookcase, examining the titles; Buffy waited until she was out of earshot before she turned to Willow again.

“So, um, Will.” God, this was _hard._ “You know I love you.”

Willow quirked a smile. “You may have mentioned it once or twice.” There was a shadow behind her eyes now, though; she knew something was up.

“I know. I just wanted to, well, remind you.” Buffy took another deep breath. “And, um, to let you know. That I’m ready for an introduction.”

Willow smiled again, but her eyes were guarded. “I already introduced you to Tara.”

 “Yeah,” Buffy agreed quietly. “You did. But I’m hoping someday you can introduce me to your _girlfriend_.”

Willow’s eyes were looking suspiciously watery over her crooked smile, and Buffy quickly pulled her into another hug. “It doesn’t have to be today,” she whispered. “I know it’s hard.”

After a little bit, Willow pulled back to look at her. “How did you figure it out?”

Buffy raised her eyebrows. “Willow, you and Tara cast that spell. What did it feel like to you?”

Willow’s face turned beet red. “Oh. Did some of that, um, leak out?”

“Let’s just say I may need a cold shower this evening.” She glanced at Spike, lounging with overdone nonchalance against the wall. “Or something.”

Willow suddenly looked down. “Do you think Xander knows?”

Buffy smiled gently. “Maybe. Do you want him to know?”

“Maybe.” Willow made a face. “Do I have to tell Anya?”

“It can be a secret as long as you want.” Buffy looked at Spike again, feeling a little twinge in her chest. “Sometimes secrets are okay.”

Willow grinned suddenly, her eyes dancing. “They sure are. But I’m glad you know.” She turned and looked at Tara, eyes soft. “I don’t know if I’m ready to share her with everyone yet. I kind of want her to be, you know, just mine. Just a little while longer.”

Buffy laughed, rolling her eyes. “Then you might want to stop looking at her like that.”

Willow turned startled eyes back to her. “Like what? What was I doing?”

“Glowing.”

“Oh.” Willow looked thoughtful. “Huh.” She looked at Buffy like there was something she wanted to say, then shook her head ruefully. “Guess I can’t help it.”

Buffy shrugged. “Guess you can’t. But, you know, Xander’s kind of dense. He probably won’t figure it out on his own.” She nudged her shoulder into Willow’s. “We could start a betting pool. On how long it takes him.”

Willow grinned. “I’d win. I’ve been a witness to almost fifteen years of Xander cluelessness.”

“Oh?” Buffy raised her eyebrows. “Do I sense a challenge here?”

“Darn tootin’!” Willow suddenly took Buffy’s hand. “But first, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

\---

The Scooby meeting dragged on until nearly dinner – Giles made them all help put in new lightbulbs – so Spike and Buffy had to rush to get home on time, and then Joyce insisted on watching a movie, chatting with him and a jittery Buffy over a glass of wine, but she finally helped Spike get settled in the guest room – heavy blankets hung over the windows and a set of folded towels on the end of the bed. Spike waited until he was sure she was asleep before opening his door. He walked barefoot down the hall, listening for any change in Joyce’s even breathing, but he made it to Buffy’s room and quietly slipped in the door, shaking a bit, because he wasn’t certain Buffy still wanted him there, not after the whole shebang with Willow, and well, he was sure he wanted to be there, because Buffy, but something uncomfortable was roiling in his stomach anyhow.

Then he saw her, and turned to lock the door, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against the painted wood as a rush of relief washed over him. Slowly he turned back to her.

She was standing by the window, the moonlight shining in her hair, turning her bare legs silver, gleaming mysteriously off the leather of her boots and the lustrous black shirt that reached down to her thighs… _Oh, god._ He knew this scene, had replayed it in his head over and over while Buffy slept in her cell, stroking himself off to the memory of her breathy voice and the fantasy of silk and midnight; he shook as he came up behind her, resting trembling hands on her shoulders. Unfinished business, indeed.

Her arms were moving, slowly, as she rubbed the silk of the shirt across her belly, and she trembled at the touch of his fingers, leaning back against him with a sigh. “Watch,” she said softly, and her pale hands glided up to her breasts, fingers curling around as her thumbs brushed the silk against her nipples, first gently, then harder. Spike pressed up against her back, resting his cheek against hers as they both watched her hands in silence.

He knew his cue, he was ready, but then Buffy pressed her cheek into his, looking at him sidelong, and changed the script. “Take off your clothes,” she said softly.

She turned to watch as he pulled his shirt over his head, her hands slow and sensual on her breasts; he was clumsy with haste, fingers fumbling on the fastening of his jeans, but he managed to wrestle his way out of the denim, yanking it over the anklet hard enough that he felt something catch and rip, and all the while Buffy watched him. When he was naked, she turned back to the window and he stepped in again, sliding his bare chest along her back, pressing his cock up against her ass, hissing at the feel of the silk between his bare skin and hers.

His hands had barely touched her shoulders when she gave him his signal, tugging the silk taut across her erect nipples, and he growled as he slid his hands around to cup her breasts. She had wanted hard, and he gave her hard, rubbing and pinching while her hands urged his on. Her head fell back against his shoulder; she was panting and biting her lip, trying to stay quiet, and Spike grinned and gave her more of what she wanted, trying to make her lose control.

The next move was hers, and she took it a moment later, gliding her hands across her stomach again; Spike pulled her hard against his chest, eyes riveted on her slow, questing fingers as they travelled down between her legs, molding the silk to her contours. As he watched, the faded silk darkened with moisture. “God,” he breathed, feeling Buffy’s cheek curving in a smile against his.

He knew her next move would be to tuck her hands under the hem of the shirt, skin on skin, and he groaned in anticipation, but he suddenly knew he had to watch, he had to see it all, and he regretfully slid his hands from her breasts to the row of buttons, tugging them open until she had a bare strip of skin showing from her breastbone all the way down to where her fingers were stroking the wet fabric , rubbing it deep into her folds, and he tugged at the tail of fabric until it slid out from under her fingers and everything was bare to his sight.

Buffy let out a soft cry, delving her fingers deeper, and Spike returned his hands to her breasts, rubbing the loose silk lapels urgently over her skin. She was moving her hips now, against her hand, and he caught her rhythm, rubbing his hard cock against her silk-covered ass, the only sounds the whisper of silk on skin and Buffy’s harsh breathing and the delicious wet slide of her sweet quim, and when she jolted with her orgasm he caught her tightly around the waist, kissing her neck with silent words of adoration, and carried her to the bed.

He pulled the covers off roughly and laid her in the very center of the white sheets, quickly removing her boots and prowling onto the bed beside her.

He looked her in the eyes. “Do you trust me?”

Buffy looked up at him, eyes still slightly unfocused. “Maybe,” she said shyly. “Is it evil plan time?”

Spike grinned. “Lift your hands over your head, kitten.”

Eyelids drooping, Buffy slowly raised her arms, and Spike took hold of the lapels of her shirt, dragging it up towards her hands. Buffy shifted to allow him to tug the fabric out from under her back. He slowly pulled the sleeves up her arms and inside out until the buttoned cuffs caught at her wrists, her hands still trapped inside.

And then he took the sleeves and wrapped them around her trapped hands until they were bound together.

Buffy’s eyes flashed, mingled nervousness and excitement on her face as Spike tied the shirt to her white ironwork headboard. He ran his hands slowly down her arms, easing back until they were face to face.

“Silk’s strong, yeah?” he whispered, eyes intent on hers. “But you’re stronger. You could rip free in a second, if you wanted to.” He sat back on his heels, looking down at her. She was glowing in the moonlight. “Do you want to?” He was shaking, he couldn’t stop, his hands clenched in fists on his thighs as he waited for her answer.

Buffy shifted her hands against the silk, testing it. “No,” she said with a faint, knowing smile.

Spike could feel his chest heaving. “You’re mine,” he growled. He could say that, right? Pretend it was part of the game. Pretend he didn’t want it to be true. Pretend he didn’t want Buffy to proclaim it proudly to the world.

She looked up at him, eyes troubled for a moment – he could almost hear her replaying her conversation with Willow, the one he had shamelessly eavesdropped on – and when she slowly nodded, something broke inside him, like a rubber band snapping. “Yes,” she said softly.

He wasn’t prepared for that, even though he had asked the question himself, and it was too much; he closed his eyes against a wave of longing, struggling to return to the moment. Finally, he managed a broken laugh – though maybe it was more of a groan, he couldn’t quite tell – and opened his eyes. “Mine to toy with,” he grinned, running one finger from the hollow of her throat all the way to her navel. Her stomach quivered. He let his hand spread out to cover her belly, just resting it there, waiting. He could wait as long as she needed.

But she didn’t need to wait. “Yes,” she said again, and smiled up at him, a quick, impish grin, before theatrically lolling her head back against her raised arm. “Oh, what torments do you have planned for me, you fiend?” She made a show of tugging at her bound hands.

 _Baby likes to_ play, Spike thought fondly, and reached up to find a trailing end of shirt fabric, tugging it down to stroke against Buffy’s cheek. “Bad, evil torments,” he purred. “And I think I need to start by ripping your clothes.”

He gave Buffy a little time, just to make sure – he was fairly certain she was like Dru in having certain clothes she didn’t want damaged, and he had a contingency plan just in case – but when she gave him a tiny nod, he slid up her body, took a piece of the shirt material in his teeth, and tugged and ripped until he had a largish piece of fabric, lighter than shadow. He let it dangle from his mouth as he slid back down, meeting her eyes over bared teeth.

Buffy was clearly trying to look damsel-in-distress-y, but her eyes were lit with anticipation; as Spike let the barest corner of the silk glide across her collarbone and sternum, she was gasping, and when he tenderly draped the silk over one perky breast, she let out a little moan. “I shall never talk! Never!”

“Quiet, love,” Spike whispered. “Mum will hear.” And he planted his open mouth over her silk-covered breast and sucked hard, curling his tongue around her hard, sweet nipple.

Her body arched like a bow, twisting to slide against his, seeking skin, but he pressed firmly down on her stomach, keeping her flat, their only points of contact his inexorable hand and his hard mouth, because the torment of waiting was the whole point of it. He devoted every ounce of his attention to her breast, licking and sucking and nibbling until she was making little squeaks in the back of her throat from the effort of keeping quiet.

He lifted his head, grinning like a shark. “Tell me what I want to hear,” he growled, realizing bitterly he was only half-joking now.

There was a long pause while Buffy stared at him in befuddlement trying to figure out what her line was supposed to be, what she was supposed to be denying him; finally she gave up on thinking and let her head fall back. “Never!” she managed. “I will never, never… never!”

“Then you leave me no choice,” he said darkly, lifting the scrap of silk with his teeth again and draping it over her other breast. She shivered when the wet silk touched her nipple.

“Do your worst,” she begged him, and he did, devouring her through the silk, teeth and tongue, sucking hard then lapping tenderly as she whimpered beneath him. He let his hand on her stomach slide just the barest inch lower, just to where her hair began, ignoring the little hitches of her hips trying to urge his hand still lower. He didn’t imagine Buffy would be in the mood to play languishing-damsel-and-ravaging-fiend often – though he expected she’d be all over playing the fiend to his damsel on a regular basis – and he wasn’t going to squander the opportunity by skipping ahead. No matter how invitingly Buffy spread her strong legs, toes twisting in the sheets near the edges of the mattress.

She was whispering now, a little stream of _oh god oh god oh god_ in a shattered voice, and Spike loved every syllable, but it wasn’t enough yet; he lifted his head from her thoroughly ravaged breast, regarding how the wet silk conformed to her every contour. “Had enough, my sweet?” he purred, blowing slightly on the fabric to cool it.

“Never,” she said huskily, and he didn’t know if it was an actual reply or just falling back on habit, but he was more than willing to take this farther. He sat up on his heels between her spread legs, grinning down at her like a pirate, his hands stretching the scrap of silk dramatically before his chest. Buffy’s wide eyes were locked on his, her chest heaving with ragged breaths, and she shifted, tilting her hips up to him.

He bared his teeth further. His love was many things, but subtle was not one of them. Good thing for her he wanted the same thing.

He took the cloth, dry at the edges and damp and wrinkled in the center, and draped it over her beautiful quim, looking down at her for a long moment, making her wait. Finally, he took one long finger and traced it right along her seam, tucking the fabric neatly just inside. She bit her lip, quivering, as he bent down to her, inhaling her scent, eyes on hers.

“Tell me,” he whispered. There was something he wanted her to tell him, right? He couldn’t rightly remember any more, not with her hot and wet and trembling beneath him.

“I shall never tell,” she whimpered, and then his mouth was on her and she hissed out, “ _God_ , yes.”

He licked her through the silk, his tongue sliding the damp fabric against her, and even through the fabric he could feel that her clit was swollen and throbbing; he pressed hard with the tip of his tongue, just there, inexorable pressure until she suddenly broke under him, her whole body shaking as she came, and he sucked at her through the fabric, tasting her sweet spendings before going at her with long hard licks that set her off again. He yanked the fabric off her, pressing it into her belly with one hand as his other delicately spread her so he could glide his tongue deeper, get everywhere, and she was swearing now, _oh god_ having given way to _fuck fuck fuck_ and he started swearing with her, loving how she jolted under his lips, except somewhere along the way he had started saying _love you love you love you_ instead of chorusing _fuck_ and he hoped to god she hadn’t heard because she would kill him, and when she came again under his quivering lips there was a dry ripping sound and suddenly her hands were on the back of his head still cocooned in silk but definitely urging him on and he laughed and hooked his hands under her knees and licked harder, flicking his tongue on her clit with each stroke, and she laughed too and set her heels on his shoulder blades and arched into his mouth and he knew she was about to come again, when suddenly his world spun and he found himself flat on his back on the floor, rocked by the impact, with Buffy sitting on his stomach, silk-wrapped hands on his chest.

“My turn,” she said wickedly. “You evil, evil fiend.”

The scrap of silk was still caught in his fingers, and he clutched at it like a lifeline as Buffy scooted back down his legs, wriggling one hand out of its bonds until there was just the sleeve over her fingers, then wrapping her hand around his cock. She started to stroke.

Words came out of his mouth, but he didn’t know what, he just hoped they were curses instead of confessions because he needed this to never, ever end. Buffy was still grinning down at him, though, so he hazily thought that whatever he had said had been all right, and he was beyond words now anyhow, lips moving and no sound coming out as her hand pumped him, and then she let go and draped a trailing piece of the torn shirt over him and tucked her wet mouth over it, sucking his silk-covered cock deep into her mouth, and it was glorious but not enough, he needed the silk to be gone, and then it was, there was nothing but the heat of her surrounding him and he couldn’t stop, he came with a rush in her mouth, and she sat up laughing and he rose up to meet her, kissing the traces of himself away, sliding his tongue deep, devouring her laughter and his come and everything she had to give him.

He was still hard and she was sliding against him and he rolled her over onto her back, pressing her legs wide, and she gazed up at him like he was the moon, laughing again when he finally thrust inside her, sliding his arms beneath her to protect her from the rug, but it wasn’t enough, he needed the bed, her pure white perfect Buffy bed, and he heaved her up, staggering to his feet and falling onto the tangled sheets with her. He couldn’t stop thrusting as he shoved her by inches across the bed until she was in the very middle, he was fucking her right in the middle of her perfect bed, and it was unbelievable so it was almost a relief when his world shifted dizzyingly again, because it couldn’t have been real, except now she was on top, rising and falling and gasping and swearing, fucking _him_ right in the middle of her perfect bed, and it was even less believable but it was real real real. He still had the silk in his hand, and he looked up at her with everything in his eyes, everything he couldn’t say, everything forbidden, and slid the silk around to her ass, sliding it down to probe tenderly at the tight little pucker, and she came around him like an explosion, and her convulsions made him explode as well as Buffy clutched futilely at his chest with her covered hands, and finally fell on top of him, heaving.

Spike wrapped his arms possessively around Buffy and stared at her bedroom ceiling, and believed.

Then suddenly Buffy sat up again. He was still inside her, though a little less hard than before, and he groaned at the friction. “Oh my _god_. Do you think my mom heard?”

Spike had no answer to that, but as Buffy glared down at him, thumping his chest with her still-cocooned hand, he tried to listen over the beguiling thrum of Buffy’s heart and the rush of her breath. Eventually he was able to determine that yes, Buffy’s mom’s heartbeat was just where it needed to be – in her own bedroom – and also not racing like one would expect of a mother who had just heard her daughter getting thoroughly fucked just across the hall. “Think we’re safe.”

Buffy kept looking down at him, eyes limpid in the moonlight, and he looked up at her, and then she smiled radiantly and gave her hips a little swirl. “Safe enough to do it again?”

Spike grinned up at her. “Yeah.”

He really hoped he wasn’t lying.

 

End Chapter 17

 

Chapter 17 Author’s Notes

Y’all probably caught the shameless _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_ reference in the Scooby Scene.


	18. Mediation

Buffy looked aghast at the car. “You can _not_ be serious.”

Spike glared at her as he buffed at a nonexistent spot on the monstrosity’s hood. “Got a problem, Slayer?”

She circled cautiously around the outskirts of the mausoleum-turned-garage. “You mean besides the fact that you expect me to take a ride in Christine?”

“Christine was a sodding 1958 Plymouth Fury,” Spike pointed out, as if that actually meant something. “My baby, on the other hand, is a mint-condition 1959 DeSoto Fireflite, the pride of the Chrysler Corporation. No comparison whatsoever.” He ducked to squint at the side-view mirror. “Buffy, lean in and breathe on this, there’s a love.”

Buffy crossed her arms. “Breathe on it yourself.”

“Doesn’t work the same. Needs the heat and moisture.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “That’s where you come in,” he purred.

_Oh, god._ “Spike, we don’t have time for this. We have to be there in twenty minutes.”

“We will be.” Spike looked at the mirror again mournfully. “Just not sure I can navigate safely with this spot on my very important safety mirror.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and bent down to breathe on the mirror, leaning against the car door to allow Spike to slide in and rub the fog away; he somehow managed to rub no fewer than three of her erogenous zones along the way. Buffy shivered, and suddenly found herself boxed in against the window.

“Admit it,” Spike murmured into her cheek. “The car gets you hot.”

“Oh, please!” Buffy scoffed. “I’ve ridden tricycles sexier than this car.” She eased her arms up around his neck, tilting her head back challengingly.

“Tricycles don’t have hoods of just the right height,” Spike growled, sliding his hands down to her hips.

“Just the right height for what?” Buffy raised an eyebrow.

Spike just grinned. “Use your imagination.”

Buffy’s imagination was all over this idea, sending four different scenarios across her brain in quick succession, each naughtier than the last, and then Spike leaned in and whispered a fifth that sounded like the best one of all. The jerk. “Fifteen minutes,” she protested faintly. “We have to go.”

He stepped back with an insouciant shrug. “If you insist.”

The interior of the car smelled faintly of bourbon and smoke; Spike tossed a few empty liquor bottles to the back as Buffy settled into the passenger seat, eyeing the upholstery cautiously. It was actually surprisingly clean, the old vinyl and fabric showing signs of recent detailing, though a scattering of cassette tapes cluttered the center of the bench seat. Spike dug through them for a moment before making a selection and popping it in the slightly-more-modern tape deck. Something that vaguely resembled music spilled out of the ancient speakers, and Buffy sighed in annoyance.

Spike cast her a grouchy look as he steered the car out onto the cemetery’s winding road. “Sorry I don’t have the sodding Backstreet Boys,” he sniped.

“Seriously, Spike? I haven’t listened to boy bands since I outgrew My Little Ponies. I just like my music to have actual, recognizable notes.”

Spike laughed at that, but didn’t argue. Or change the tape.

Buffy watched the dusk-muted greens and grays of the cemetery glide by, distracting herself from the ordeal ahead by reading the familiar names off the headstones as they passed. Marcos DiFrancesco, Laura Jordan, Pat Macallen. The familiar landmark of the Alpert crypt. Most Sunnydale headstones were singletons – despite not knowing about vampires, local residents seemed leery of sharing their plots, even when they had beaten the divorce odds – but here and there were couples interred together. Cecilia and Norman Farraday, who had died on the same night – maybe that was why they could share, accident victims were rarely vamped – and Leticia and Javier Delgado, whose double-arched stone had a laminated photo of them inset between their names – Buffy couldn’t see it from here, but she always gave the photo a little glance when patrolling, because they were kind of adorable – and Yvonne and Leroy Bernier, whose deaths were separated by twenty years… Buffy wondered idly if any of them had gone to Dr. Moon’s Marriage Boot Camp, and if that was why they were unusually willing to stay together, even when they were gone.

Or maybe they just had kids who liked to keep up the pretense, even when it didn’t matter anymore.

Or maybe they were just cheapskates saving on burial costs.

_God,_ she was in a mood tonight.

After the upheaval of last week, life had settled into a routine that was comfortable and surreal at the same time, like curling up to her treasured stuffie Mr. Gordo, if Mr. Gordo were a chiseled masterpiece of a vampire with a wicked sense of humor and a wickeder sense of sex, and, well, she supposed that wasn’t technically a simile since that was exactly what she had been doing every night, and she honestly couldn’t think of any metaphor that could match that for pure what-the-hell-is-going-on?-ness.

So, yeah. Surreal.

They’d had to resume vandalism cleanup on Monday, of course, which meant waking up even earlier than the week before since Buffy’s house was further from downtown. This was probably a good thing, since it got them out of the house before Buffy’s mom was awake to wonder why they were both coming out of the same room – Spike was oddly more concerned about this than Buffy, though it was possible he was just looking for an excuse to tumble Buffy onto his own bed and smooch her until it looked appropriately mussed. Each morning, Willow got them their tent with a whoosh of magic; each morning, Officer Lin showed up, now accompanied by a grouchy cop he introduced as Officer Diaz, and took up his stoic post outside their Tent of Shame; each morning Spike managed to infuriate her and confuse her and drive her insane with lust, until each morning it was less a question of _whether_ they would have sex and more a question of _where_ and _when_ and _how_ , which was generally answered the second they were free of their very public tent and in a more private location.

Well, not counting that one time up against the wall they were supposed to be cleaning, frantic and urgent and as silent as they could be, watching the silhouettes of their supervisors on the tent walls for any sign of movement. That had probably been ill-advised, but _god_ it had been hot, the fear of discovery charging every caress, Spike grinning and doing his damnedest to push her to the edge, until she was gnawing on his shirt to stay quiet when she came for the umpteenth time. Spike was apparently inspired to new heights of sexual prowess when he could simultaneously be an asshole. But Buffy couldn’t bring herself to regret it, because _holy crap_ that had been something.

But anyhow, there was cleaning, and sex, and patrolling, and more sex, and oddly formal meals with Buffy’s mother, who had decided that Spike merited the good china, and had also somehow managed to find a black ceramic mug with some weird logo that Spike got all excited about, for Spike’s blood. Though Joyce (predictably) expected him to help with cleanup, and Spike (unexpectedly) washed dishes without complaint. (Buffy’s mom had accepted Spike like a new member of the family, which kind of weirded Buffy out until her mom said something about how nice it was that Spike was willing to go to counseling to save their relationship, and Buffy suddenly realized that her father hadn’t been willing, that he must have refused, and that made Buffy so unexpectedly sad that she didn’t even argue semantics about the “relationship” part.) And then after dinner and patrol they went upstairs, and waited for Buffy’s mom to fall asleep, and had even more sex. Sometimes they saw a police cruiser parked around the corner from the house, on the way out to patrol, but they just held hands and ran, laughing, and after the first night it didn’t even try to follow them.

They hadn’t figured out the range of the current shielding spell; the anklets hadn’t gone off yet on patrol, which was all that mattered to Buffy, and she was oddly reluctant to find out just how far the shield reached. It was stuck in her head at fifty feet, which was coincidentally too short a distance for Spike to be able to move all the way down to the basement, and…. She stopped thinking at that point. They couldn’t get too far apart. That was the important thing.

And now they were on their way to their first night of Marriage Boot Camp, in a car that was twice as old as Buffy herself, and Buffy was terrified.

Something on the windshield caught her eye as they passed under a series of streetlights, and she squinted, happy for the distraction. “What’s that stuff on the glass?”

Spike shrugged, unconcerned. “Just paint.”

Buffy folded her arms, annoyed that he had apparently discovered the ability to _shut up_ just in time to not fully answer a simple question. “ _Why_ is there paint on the glass?”

Spike looked at her sidelong, clearly catching the edge in her voice. “It’s not _evil_ paint, love.” He leaned back in his seat, steering with one hand so he could drape the other over the back of the seat, his thumb toying at her shoulder. “In town I only drive at night, yeah? But sometimes a man needs to stretch his legs a bit. Hit the open road. And as it turns out, the open road lets in a lot of sunlight. Get down into Central America, especially, can’t always find a place to hole up in during the day. So I paint the windows, tape up butcher paper, whatever it takes so I can keep on driving. Get somewhere good.”

Buffy frowned. “How do you see through the paint?”

“Not a fool, love. Leave a little peephole.” He stroked his thumb against her collarbone. “Besides, I drive by feel more than anything else.”

“By feel.” Buffy looked at him askance. “Why do I get the feeling your ‘baby’ has had a lot of body work?”

Spike grinned at that. “My _baby_ ’s body doesn’t need any work.” He ran his eyes along Buffy, head to toe. “Looks bloody perfect to me.”

Buffy quivered. “I’m not your baby.”

“Didn’t say you were.” His hand twitched on her shoulder. “You know,” he finally said, voice light, “there’s a reason I own a car with a bench seat.”

“So you can sleep off the bourbon?” Buffy grinned.

“Very funny.” He tucked his hand into the neckline of her shirt, tugging gently. “Come over.” His voice was soft.

“I’m wearing my seatbelt,” Buffy pointed out.

“Don’t need it,” Spike purred.

“Spike. I’ve been watching you drive for almost five minutes now. I am very certain that I _do_ need it.”

Spike bit his lip. “Center seat’s got a safety belt,” he said at last.

“Does it?” Buffy shrugged, looking out the window and trying not to smile. “Too bad the car’s moving.”

Spike cast her a narrow-eyed look before slamming his foot on the brakes to stop at the yellow light he had been about to sail through. “Looky, looky,” he drawled. “Vehicle’s come to a full and complete stop.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Buffy unbuckled her seat belt, slid into the center seat – tossing the cassette tapes in the back seat, tragically out of reach – and buckled up again. Spike’s arm dropped around her shoulder and he tugged her up against him, face satisfied, before taking off through the intersection with a squeal of tires. There was a screech of brakes and a belated horn behind them.

“Spike, that light was still red!”

“Weren’t any cars coming,” he lied, giving her a little shake. She sighed and settled more comfortably against his side.

She supposed Spike’s car was kind of okay, after all.

***

Spike wasn’t sure why he’d picked “Leave Home” out of his collection of tapes – Buffy had certainly shown she had no knowledge or appreciation of The Ramones – but it had seemed like an excellent choice when it started out right in the middle of “Pinhead.” Then the tape flipped over to the B-side and the first song started playing, and he realized it must have in actuality have been his instinctual love of ironic torture. Why else would his fucking subconscious want him to listen to “Now I Wanna Be a Good Boy?” Fucking Dee Dee. His songs were always so bloody sappy.

_Now I wanna be a good boy, I don’t wanna be bad_

If Buffy hadn’t been so bitchily dismissive of the music – of fucking _Pinhead_ , in all its iconic glory! – Spike would have switched over to something less on-the-nose, but bugger if he was going to change tapes now, so he was grateful when she started giving him grief about the paint on the windshield and he could show her that he bloody well _did_ want to be bad.

From the way she was quivering now, tucked all up against his side, he was fairly certain she’d gotten the message.

_Now I wanna run away from home…_

He wondered what she would do if he did decide to run away from home after all, just pull off onto the freeway, head down the road and out of town – not to Los Angeles, City of Wankers, but maybe San Diego, or further on into Mexico, down into the other Americas. The Big Bad, behind the wheel of his car, arm around his woman, music and the night… Well, he’d have about five minutes to enjoy it before Buffy figured it out and made him turn around, but it was a good fantasy. He would’ve rolled down the window to feel the wind in his hair, just to foster the illusion, except he had one hand on the wheel and the other on Buffy, and both of those bloody well took priority.

Plus, he wouldn’t get cold, but unlike Drusilla, Buffy might. It was December. Wouldn’t the breeze be too cold for her? He thought about that for a bit. He didn’t really know, now, did he? He’d never had to consider it before, not since before there were car windows to roll down. How cold was too cold for a human being? His arm tightened on her shoulders. He’d not liked that, the other night, when she’d been shaking with cold. He had to figure these things out, because Buffy obviously wasn’t going to say anything. Had the self-preservation instinct of a bloody lemming sometimes, his girl.

The next song came on, and he started to sing along – well, mouth the words, so as not to shake Buffy out of her cuddle – because yeah, this was the song he’d wanted all along. Bloody subconscious had all the subtlety of a boot to the head.

_Winter is here and it’s going on two years, swallow my pride…_

_And things were looking very grim but they’re looking good again, swallow my pride…_

_Loose lips sink ships they say, but isn’t it always that way?_

_Swallow my pride, oh yeah…_

Seemed like all he’d done the past week and change – well, other than the obvious – was swallow his bloody pride, but he had the stomach for it. Love’s bitch. Hell, Buffy didn’t even need to crack the whip anymore; he was already curbing his impulses based on what she wanted, as demonstrated by the fact that they were still on their way to bloody _counseling_ instead of Cordoba. He was whipped, pure and simple.

Well, not as whipped as he would have liked. But the way Buffy had taken to silk scarves gave him hope for the future.

_Gonna have a real cool time, and everything’s gonna be real fine_

_Swallow my pride, oh yeah… Swallow my pride, oh yeah…_

Joey had just moved on to the cautionary tale of sweet, insane Mary Jane – whose desire to be like all the other girls had sent her into a spiral of mind games and self-loathing that culminated in a heart-warming journey of personal discovery and true love – when Spike pulled into the parking lot of Dos Pueblos High School, about as morbidly depressing a place as Spike could imagine. And Spike had been in New York during the Summer of Sam, so that was really saying something.

He was not in the least surprised to see a police cruiser in the parking lot, lights flashing a cheery welcome. From the looks of the area, they probably had a cruiser stationed at the school twenty-four-seven, but the silhouettes of the officers standing by the vehicle looked familiar. Fucking wankers, couldn’t track them so they had to set up an ambush.

“Got company, love,” Spike murmured, steering easily into a space far from the cruiser.

“Oh, god,” Buffy sighed grouchily. “It figures.” She scooted over to the door and got out while Spike was still setting the parking brake.

Spike slung his arm around Buffy’s shoulder, ostentatiously casual, as they strolled towards the open door of the school. Buffy… Buffy _let_ him, she was warm and pliant and strong beneath his arm, and he felt like the king of the world. Fucking A.

Officer Kemp stepped out into their path, looking pointedly at his watch. “Six fifty-nine. Cutting it kind of close, aren’t you?”

Buffy stiffened under his arm. “We’re here on time, aren’t we?” Her voice was cheery, but Spike could hear the hard edge under it. Bugger if it didn’t make him hard in response. God, he needed to get her alone while she was still pissed off…

Officer Thomas was glaring at the antenna box in his hand. “That’s weird,” he muttered, fiddling with a knob, then glancing down at Buffy’s ankle, where her anklet was still winking merrily. “That’s so weird.”

Spike tugged Buffy a little closer. “ _If_ you’ll pardon us,” he said insolently, “My lady and I have a very important meeting to attend.” Buffy gave him a little sidelong glare.

Kemp gave them one final scathing appraisal. “Don’t think we won’t get a report from Dr. Moon,” he said nastily.

Spike had fixed Thomas with his most predatory look, just to see him squirm, but he could _feel_ Buffy’s eyes rolling. “Yes,” she sighed. “Make sure it ends up on my permanent record. I never get tired of that.”

The officers seemed to have regained a little bit of sense, or at least enough animal instinct to get out of the way of a grouchy slayer; they melted off to the side and Buffy stomped towards the entrance, slipping out from under Spike’s arm in the process. So much for being king of the world. She was muttering under her breath and as Spike hurried to catch up with her, he was able to pick out bits and pieces like “who do they think they are?” and “god why did it have to be a high school?” and a few random uncomplimentary things that he was fairly certain were not directed at him, since he absolutely did not have a beer belly, and he knew Buffy knew it because she had spent a good half-hour kissing and licking his belly just that morning, and that was enough reminiscing or he wasn’t going to make it to ten. Or even to seven, he thought ruefully, eyeing Buffy’s sweet leather-clad arse as she bent over the clipboard with the sign-in sheet.

The pregnant woman supervising the sign-in table was watching them with interest, though, so he reluctantly deemed it was the wrong time and place to cuddle up to said arse. Buffy was very hung up on this “time and place” rot, which, well, he did rather prefer a spot of privacy, but he had quickly learned that for Buffy “hung up on” was practically synonymous with “massively turned on by” so he was trying to work out the best way to game the system, find the exact line between discovery kink and actual fear.

Buffy glanced over her shoulder. “You ready for this?”

Spike shrugged. “Trust-falls under the iron fist of a drill sergeant shrink? Think I can handle it.” What the hell, this was an event for married couples; he ran his hand over Buffy’s rear. God, she should always wear leather.

Buffy turned back to him with a huff. “Just… We have to be convincing, Spike.”

“Well, when we meet this Dr. Moon, we’ll convince him.” He let his eyelids droop, eyeing Buffy’s lips. “’m a method actor, though. Good snog would get my head in the right place.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and tilted her head up, and her lips were warm and sweet; he was considering whether this was an acceptable time and place to heave her up on the table when they were interrupted by a throat clearing. Buffy pushed him away and turned to the sign-in lady, who was slowly standing, clipboard in hand. “So,” Buffy began brightly. “Where do we go from here? We’re supposed to check in with Dr. Moon.”

“If you’ll just follow me,” the woman said with a wry smile, and Spike perked up a bit, eyeing her with interest. Wasn’t often he met a fellow Brit here in Sunnyhell, at least one that wasn’t a watcher. And she was fetching, too, brown eyes gleaming with intelligence and thick black hair and – when she turned to lead them down the hall – a damn fine bottom under her yellow maternity dress. She was eminently biteable.

Not that he looked for long. He was a one-woman man, and his one woman could break him with her pinky, making her essentially the Perfect Woman. He just wasn’t _blind_.

They were led to a vast gymnasium, empty except for a circle of chairs set out in the very middle and a collection of huge boxes off to the side. Most of the chairs were occupied. There was no sign of the grizzled, fatigue-clad martinet that had been prominently featured in the brochure. Spike sauntered with Buffy to the last set of vacant chairs while the Biteable Brit stepped to the center of the circle, writing something on her clipboard.

“I believe we’re all here,” she said briskly. “So, perhaps we should start with introductions.” She turned in a small circle, smiling at each seated individual in turn, finishing with Spike and Buffy, whom she regarded with sly amusement. “I’m Dr. Moon. So very pleased to meet you all.”

Buffy met Spike’s eyes in dismay. “Oh.”

He thought back to their conversation at the sign-in table. “ _Oh_ indeed.”

“But… where’s the brochure guy?” Buffy whispered to him as Dr. Moon gestured for another couple to rise and introduce themselves. “I thought the whole point of boot camp was having a mean guy yelling stuff at you while you did pushups and stuff. Except we’d be doing, like, pushups with our feelings.” She looked away suddenly. “Pretend pushups with our pretend feelings.”

“Must’ve been a stock photo,” Spike murmured back testily. “Can see why. Would you sign up for boot camp from a fluffy round daffodil?”

The introductions continued around the circle – Barb and Kathy, Javier and Marisela, Tamara and John, LaShawn and Sylvester, Gary and Melissa, Crystal and Michael, Steve and Steve... They seemed a pretty dull lot to Spike, but it wasn’t as if they were going to be coming by for tea and crumpets. Buffy was getting more and more jittery as the introductions progressed, though, and finally he yanked her folding chair closer to his so he could drape his arm around her shoulder again.

She glared at him. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Putting on a good show,” he murmured back, sprawling out negligently. “It’s called acting. Act like you enjoy it.”

Buffy looked at him then, really looked, for a long time before settling against his side. “I do,” she muttered eventually.

“Act?” Spike said softly.

She shifted, looking determinedly away. “Enjoy it,” she whispered like it was a shameful secret. Which he supposed it rather was. Still, the admission was something. Something meaningful.

He just couldn’t suss out what it meant.

***

Buffy heaved a huge sigh of relief when their turn came and went without incident, no Spike being an antisocial jerk or people laughing at either of their names or Dr. Moon pointing at them and shrieking like Donald Sutherland had done in that Body Snatchers movie to unmask them as imposters. (Though actually, hadn’t Donald Sutherland himself been the imposter? Screaming to unmask the people who _weren’t_ fakey pod people? Whatever, there had been no screaming and no unmasking and that was good enough for Buffy.)

Spike was actually trying really hard to make them look good, she supposed; he’d had his arm around her almost the whole time, and now that Dr. Moon was giving an introductory speech he was nuzzling into her hair and pressing tender kisses to her ear, and she kept telling herself it was only because she also wanted to make them look good that she was tilting her ear up to his lips, but it was a fact that she wasn’t paying attention as closely as she probably should have, and so when Dr. Moon concluded her speech with a brisk clap of her hands, Buffy jumped like she had just fallen asleep in math class.

“Now,” Dr. Moon said in a cheerful but firm voice. “All of you are here because you are committed to your relationships, to making them stronger and healthier and more stable. This is not an easy thing to do. If you’ve come here with prior expectations of what couples counseling might entail…” Oh god, she was looking right at Buffy and Spike! She had a pretty mean glare for a daffodil. Weren’t pregnant women supposed to be all serene and placidly knitting booties while they calmly awaited the stork? That was what they did in Dumbo. “…I think you’ll find things here are not at all what you expected. What makes Marriage Boot Camp different from other counseling programs is that we take a firm, no-excuses approach to the process. We use a variety of activities to test and strengthen your bonds of communication and commitment. Some of these activities will be fun; some will not. I expect each and every one of you to participate in each and every activity fully and actively. If you are not willing to do so, you may as well leave now.” Dr. Moon swept the circle with a hard glare, and yeah, Buffy had to revise her first impression, because this woman was no fluffy, delicate, serene daffodil.

More like a big yellow bulldozer. A monster truck bulldozer that chomped cars up and breathed fire.

Dr. Moon went on, inexorably. “My assistants and I will be observing you all tonight so that we may tailor our program in future weeks to your specific needs. However, one thing that we will be doing in each session at the very start is what I call the Love Affirmation.”

That sounded ominous; Buffy shifted uncomfortably under Spike’s arm.

“What I need you all to do, right now, is to take your chairs and set them up so you are facing your partner. I want you to be close to each other, but not touching.”

Buffy looked dubiously at Spike, who shrugged, eyes guarded, and stood, dragging his chair over to face hers. It was weird, just sitting and looking at him, especially when he had that look on his face. She didn’t know what that look was, except that it was wary and vulnerable and angry and intense all at once, and it… it just made her feel weird.

She wondered what her face looked like.

Dr. Moon waited until the scraping of chairs on the wood floor died out before continuing. “Now, I want you to join hands with your partner and look at them. Too often, we get complacent with the presence of our partner, and fail to acknowledge them fully, to give each other our complete attention. You need to focus every bit of your mind and your body – well, except the parts that are listening to me – every bit of it on your partner.”

Buffy focused on Spike’s chin. That was _part_ of him, right?

“Once you’re comfortable with this,” Dr. Moon continued, “I recommend you get in the habit of doing it regularly, possibly even daily. Take the time to look at your partner, to listen to what they have to say, and to communicate the truth of your feelings. This can be your safe time to be completely honest, to share your fears and hurts and joys, and most of all to reaffirm your love for each other. And that is what I want you to do today. Just look your partner in the eye and tell them that you love them.”

Spike’s eyes met hers then, startled and terrified, and Buffy’s mouth went dry.

“You first,” she said quickly.

His eyes narrowed. “No, _you_ first.”

Buffy smiled brightly, hissing through her clenched teeth. “She’s watching us, Spike.”

“And?” he muttered, sounding sulky.

“I thought you were all about putting on a good show,” Buffy muttered testily, still grinning.

Spike’s mouth opened as if he was about to argue with that, but then he sighed, looking down at the shiny wooden floor. His jaw clenched, the tendon twitching once, twice, then he suddenly looked back up at her, his expression fierce.

“Buffy,” he said softly, eyes dark and unreadable on hers. “I love you.”

Oh god, his voice was low and fervent, and his eyes were deep and way too intense, and there was something about the way he was looking at her that made her shiver, like he really meant it, even though she knew better, and for just a moment she felt warmth blooming inside her, because it was just so nice to hear the words, and not to have them followed by a “but…” She smiled back at him, feeling a little sad.

“I love you too, Spike,” she lied, then leaned in to his ear. “That was really good,” she whispered, watching Dr. Moon to make sure she wasn’t paying them _too_ close of attention now. “I almost believed you for a second there.” He laughed at that, under his breath, harshly, and she squeezed his hands, because it was kind of sweet that he was trying so hard.

And Dr. Moon clapped her hands again, and the moment was over.

***

Buffy heaved a ragged sigh as she opened the door of the little kitchenette that adjoined the gymnasium’s concessions area. They weren’t even an hour into the session, and already she was emotionally exhausted from all the smiling and pretending she and Spike were the most loving and adorable couple in the history of forever. Which, as it turned out, she was terrible at. Or thought she might be terrible at. She couldn’t really tell, because she had no idea what Dr. Moon was looking for in her observations. Something about the evening felt like those dreams she used to have senior year, the really scary ones about showing up for her final exams and not recognizing any of the material on the test and having to stay in school another year while Willow and Xander graduated, which was so horrifying that she had almost been relieved when she’d dreamed about creepy clowns or nasty snot-demons instead. She’d had plenty of experience with failing tests, of course, but usually she at least had an idea what she was supposed to know and didn’t. This was like walking into her math final and being presented with something written in Chinese.

Like their first activity. Each couple had been given a copy of the latest TV Guide, and asked to decide what to watch on Friday night, while Dr. Moon and her assistants wandered from pair to pair like circling judgment-vultures. Buffy had started off trying to be sweet and accommodating, but within minutes they had gotten into a heated discussion of the relative merits of Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee, and just as Buffy had been really getting into it – and Spike too, from the grin on his face and the gleam in his eye – Dr. Moon had walked into her field of vision, her expression unreadable, and Buffy had felt her words dry up, even as Spike had offhandedly conceded her point that Jackie Chan’s creative adaptation to his surroundings gave him the edge in survival, in a tone of voice that made her think he’d agreed with her all along but just wanted to argue.

And then they had been given a piece of furniture to assemble, with the instructions that Buffy was the only one allowed to touch the tools while Spike was the only one allowed to look at the instructions, and oh by the way, Buffy had to be blindfolded. Which wouldn’t have been so bad – she and Spike had fought together enough that they were actually pretty good at coordinating – except that Buffy kind of broke a couple of the particle-board pieces when trying to put them together, so in the end they had a pile of splintered wood, which would have been useful in an actual fight but was probably not the point of the activity, at least if Dr. Moon’s vigorous writing on her clipboard was any indication.

And then they had gone on break, and Buffy had offered to go make Spike some tea, because she was totally the bestest wife ever, and he had had the gall to mutter something about bloody Americans not knowing how to make tea properly, which – hello? Tea bag in hot water. Duh.

“So how long have you two been together?” The cheery voice startled her, and Buffy spun around to see that one of the older ladies from the group – Molly? Melissa? – had followed her into the kitchenette. She wore a brilliant flowered shirt and looked kind of like Tina Turner, except more suburban-soccer-mom than stiletto-heels. She and her husband Gary had said something about this not being their first session with Dr. Moon, claiming to be “old pros” at Marriage Boot Camp, which had struck Buffy as kind of odd but whatever.

“How long?” Buffy busied herself rifling through the selection of herbal tea bags and sugar packets arranged in a depressingly-cheery gingham basket beside a thermos that presumably held hot water. “Gosh, let me think.” It took a second to get her timeline together. Just enough truth to make it easy to remember, that was the key. “We met a couple years back at a, uh, school thing. He was seeing someone else, but you know how things go. They left town, then he came back on his own, uh, a few months ago and… you know.” Buffy shrugged as if she had actually said something meaningful, randomly picking a couple of teabags and stepping aside to serve up hot water.

Molly/Melissa nodded sagely, choosing a packet of her own. “He couldn’t forget you.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” _Of course, he wanted to kill me, and possibly still does, but hey! Unforgettable!_

The older woman cast her a sly glance as she filled up a cup. “I bet the sex is incredible.”

_Whoa Nelly! (Or Molly or Melissa.)_ “I, uh… wow. What… what makes you say that?” Buffy could feel herself turning red, because she was _so_ not ready to talk frankly about sex with, well, anyone, but especially not a virtual stranger the same age as her mom.

“Oh, it’s obvious, the way you look at each other.” Molly/Melissa had a faraway look in her eye, as she dunked her teabag over and over. Deliberately. Rhythmically.

_Oh god, is she imagining it? With the dunking, and the…Oh god!_ The problem was, now Buffy was imagining it too. _Get a grip, Buffy! It’s tea! Tea is not sexy, tea is all stuffy and British and Giles-y and…_ But the motion of the tea bag was mesmerizing, and Buffy’s mouth was getting dry. Possibly because all the moisture was rushing to other parts of her body and… oh god she _really_ needed to get a grip. “How…” Her voice squeaked; she sipped her tea and tried again. “How do we look at each other?”

Melissa ( _What the hell, she looks Melissa-ish…_ ) shook herself and shrugged, dropping her teabag in the trash. “Oh, I don’t know. Like you want to eat each other up. Like you’re on fire inside.”

Buffy kind of wanted to snark that Spike _did_ sort of want to eat her up – just in a gross, homicidal way – but then she thought about his mouth, his wicked, wicked mouth, the way he loved to devour her, and now that Melissa mentioned it she did kind of feel like she was on fire inside, and so she mustered an embarrassed shrug instead.

Melissa didn’t seem perturbed by her reticence. “You know, just between you and me…” Melissa leaned over with a conspiratorial wink. “…there’s a closet down the hall. Cleaning supplies, that sort of stuff, but it’s… surprisingly roomy. Plenty of space if you need a little pick-me-up. On one of the breaks.”

Buffy’s mouth was gaping open, she knew it, but she couldn’t help but listen in fascination.

“Oh, don’t worry!” Melissa breezed on. “It’s far enough away that nobody can hear anything. Why one time Gary and I…”

“Oh, gosh! Where did the time go?” Buffy quickly interrupted, teeth bared, because she _so_ did not want to hear the play-by-play of Gary and Melissa’s sexytimes. “My honey bear’s going to be wondering if I had to go to China for this tea!”

Melissa smiled maternally, resting a comforting hand on Buffy’s shoulder. “I understand completely. Go pamper your hubby. That’s what these meetings are all about.” She leaned in again, lowering her voice. “Just go on past the girls’ locker room, take the first two rights, then a left after room 132, then another right at the end of the hall. The door says ‘Staff Only.’ You can’t miss it. I’ll cover for you if you’re late getting back.” Another wink.

“Wow. Uh, thanks.” Buffy zipped out the door, trying very hard not to wonder just what “surprisingly roomy” meant in the context of a janitorial closet.

Spike was slouched in his metal folding chair, arms folded, glaring around at the other couples as if deciding which was the most annoying and hence should be eaten first. He’d been weird since the very start of the session, bouncing between manic and grouchy for some mysterious reason, and Buffy really hoped it wasn’t going to count against them when Dr. Moon did her assessment. She hurried over to him, plastering a huge grin on her face.

“Here’s your tea, _sweetie_. Sorry they didn’t have hot chocolate for you.” He gave her a dirty look as he accepted the cup, which inexplicably made her think of the closet again. _Surprisingly roomy_.

***

It had taken some careful thought but Spike had finally decided. He would definitely eat the brunette with the piercing high-pitched laugh first.

It had been a difficult decision, because the obnoxious chap in the Hawaiian shirt had spent the break spouting off to the other men about his wife and some super-secret closet and his favorite uses for the janitor’s rubber gloves, laughing like a hyena at fantasies that Spike found crushingly mundane, but in the end the vampire just couldn’t stomach the thought of actually biting Hawaiian-bloke’s sweaty aging-linebacker neck. The brunette looked young and tender, and ridding the world of her laugh would definitely be a boon for society. The mayor would probably give him a medal. He would be a bloody hero.

Not that he would, of course. Buffy wouldn’t stand for it, and besides that, he’d just… not been feeling it lately. Well, that wasn’t quite true – he always felt the urge to kill and feed, it was an essential part of him; it just didn’t feel urgent anymore, not the way getting Buffy alone felt urgent, not the way making her bloody well _believe_ him felt urgent.

He’d said it, and she hadn’t believed him.

He couldn’t exactly blame her, he supposed. He’d been trying to kill her and her precious Scoobies for, what, two years now? Two and a half? Of course she didn’t believe he was in love with her _now,_ after less than a month of fake marriage. He’d not believe it himself, were it not rocketing around inside him like a blasted Roman candle. A whole cavalcade of Roman candles, assaulting his liver.

But still, it ate at him. He’d looked her in the eye and he’d said it, he’d fucking _said_ it, and she’d just smiled at him like he was a bloody poodle that’d just managed a clever somersault, and then she’d fucking said it back, except… not.

He glared at her as she brought him the tea he bloody well hadn’t wanted in the first place – probably understeeped, if he knew Buffy’s brewing skills – and wondered what it would take for her to accept him. A hundred good works? A thousand? Did he have to pull an Angel and go get his bloody _soul_?

God, he hoped not. He didn’t want to think about whether or not he would.

***

The boxes turned out to contain big foam cylinders; after the break Dr. Moon pulled one out and brandished it like a longsword.

“These are boffers,” she said briskly. “Play weapons that are designed not to injure.” She tugged one of the Steves up from his chair. “Here, hit me with it.”

His eyes bugged out. “I can’t hit you!”

She folded her arms. “Do it,” she said in a voice of steel. “Hit me.”

Steve swallowed audibly, then swung the length of foam in a timid arc that barely impacted Dr. Moon’s shoulder.

She rolled her eyes, took the boffer out of his hands, and swung it at his stomach so hard it whistled through the air.

He blinked owlishly at the impact. “That didn’t hurt.”

Dr. Moon held out the length of foam. “You can’t injure each other with these. They’re actually softer and more pliable than most toy weapons made for children. I want each of you to take one, and then spread out around the gymnasium so that you have plenty of room. I’m going to set a timer for ten minutes, and in those ten minutes I want you to have at each other. Really let go. This is a chance to unleash your normal frustrations in a harmless and enjoyable way.”

Buffy snagged boffers for herself and Spike – pink ones, just because – and jerked her head towards one of the corners of the gym. He grinned back, catching the boffer she tossed him and swirling it flashily, stalking around her in a circle.

“Think these’ll set off the chip, pet?” he murmured as they settled into their space. Across the way, Gary and Melissa were already striking clumsily at each other, laughing, while some of the other couples were tentatively looking at each other, unsure what to do. One or two of them essayed tentative first strikes.

Buffy shrugged, forgetting about the rest of the couples. “Are you thinking Buffy-hurting thoughts?”

“Maybe,” he purred back.

“Then don’t,” she grinned, and leapt forward, whacking him in the nose. Because duh, of course it had to be the nose.

He caught hold of her boffer, tilting his head to peer around it. “How hard were you trying that time?”

“Spike, I have been _ordered_ to whale on you for ten minutes. Do you really think I’m going to wimp out?”

“Right then.” He suddenly lashed out with his own boffer, striking her full on the side.

“That didn’t hurt?” It hadn’t hurt her, but the chip didn’t always seem to be logical.

He rubbed his nose thoughtfully, starting to circle again. “My nose feels fine, love. Figured I couldn’t hurt you after all. And as it turns out, the chip agrees.” And then he grinned, evilly. “So lay on, MacDuff!” And he lunged into battle.

Buffy tried, she really tried to keep their battle tame and normal and like all the other couples around the gym. But when Spike unleashed a rapid-fire combo at her head, she just had to retaliate by somersaulting behind him and slashing at his back, and after that it didn’t take long before they were bouncing off the bleachers and bantering and whirling, until Buffy finally managed to catch Spike off-balance, and he went tumbling to the floor.

Buffy landed atop Spike’s stomach laughing, jabbing her squishy boffer into his chest over and over again, and he was grinning up at her, eyes hungry, and she was just about to lean down and taste that grin when she suddenly realized the gymnasium had gone completely silent around them, the varied boffer fights having given way to… staring. Lots and lots of staring. She leapt to her feet, tugging Spike up with her.

“Well,” said Dr. Moon. “That was interesting.”

Buffy attempted a casual shrug, breathing heavily. “Yeah, um… we… Well, you know that medieval recreation stuff? With the turkey legs and the minstrels and the, um, mead?” Dr. Moon raised her eyebrows. “Well, not the mead, because I’m totally not old enough to drink alcohol, but… um, yeah. We do that.”

The ten-minute timer went off with a cheery _ding!_

Eyes amused, Dr. Moon turned to address the group. “Now, as you may have noticed it was difficult at first to engage, even with my assurances that the weapons were harmless. However, once you had experienced it for yourself, most of you were able to let go of your inhibitions and…” She glanced sidelong at Spike and Buffy. “Well. Engage. It’s the same thing with speech. We sometimes hold back information from our loved ones because we are afraid of hurting them. But it’s vitally important that we keep open lines of communication…”

Buffy knew she should be listening to the Very Important Lesson, but now that they were no longer the focus of a few dozen interested eyes, she was suddenly hyper-aware of her body, heaving breath and racing heartbeat and tingling skin and quivering thighs and oh god, it was a good thing they were in a public place or she would be wrestling Spike back down to the floor, except no boffers, just hands and skin and mouths, and from the way Spike was looking at her he was thinking the same thing, and how much longer did this damn counseling session have? An hour? Two?

Dr. Moon was winding down. “…So. Let’s take a ten-minute break, and then we’ll get back in our circle, shall we?” She clapped her hands together briskly.

Buffy met Spike’s eyes, calculating. Ten minutes….

Yeah, that’d do.

She grabbed his hand and dragged him off down the hall.

***

Spike had no bloody clue where they were headed, or how Buffy knew where to go when she’d never been here before, but he didn’t give a good goddamn, not when it was fairly obvious what Buffy had in mind for their final destination. Two rights, a left, and a right, and Buffy was yanking open a door and dragging him into a room full of shelving and mops and buckets.

“Ten minutes,” she panted, hands fumbling at his belt. “We have to be fast.”

“Fast?” Spike raised his eyebrows.

Buffy shook him by his waistband, looking up at him darkly. “Fast and hard,” she said, voice rough with desire.

“Right,” he grinned, running his hands over her behind, indulging himself in the feel of the leather just once before unfastening her trousers, because he could do fast and hard – hell, he was all worked up from the fight and still vaguely pissed from everything before the fight, especially that bloody Fake Love Affirmation bollocks; a fast, hard fuck was bloody well what the doctor had ordered.

She had already gotten his jeans unfastened and oh god, she wasn’t wasting any time, taking his cock right in her hot hand. “I think we’re actually down to eight,” she murmured, stroking. “Eight minutes.”

Spike grunted in acknowledgment, falling to his knees to yank Buffy’s pants down, which ended the stroking of course but it wasn’t like he needed more foreplay, not after that sparring match. He ducked in and licked Buffy once through her panties before yanking them down as well, and then Buffy kicked one foot free of her clothes and tumbled down on top of him and his head hit the door with a thunk as she straddled him, and oh god he wanted her he wanted her, but…

But he caught her hands just as she was fitting his cock to her. “Say you want me,” he growled.

“Spike!” she hissed, writhing against him.

“Say it,” he insisted, watching her face.

She looked him right in the eyes, just the way she had earlier, except this time instead of false cheer, her eyes were stormy and hungry and searingly honest. “I want you, Spike,” she said in a low voice. “I want you _now._ ”

And that wasn’t what he needed, not really, not all of it, but it was enough for now, it was _words_ , true words, and he released her hands and arched his head back and let himself be taken.

God god god, she was frantic and furious, fucking him with every ounce of herself, and he was right there with her, thrusting up and up and up into her heat, his feet stretched out and knocking over dustmops and pushbrooms, they were falling all around them but he didn’t care, and _god_ she was coming already, he could see it in her face; he reached up and sank his hands into her hair and pulled her face down until they were eye to eye, her broken breath hot on his lips and when she gasped with her release he kissed her, drank in every drop until she relaxed against him, and then he wrapped her pliant body close, moving inside her, whispering his love into the top of her head over and over again, savoring every stroke, until Buffy reared back, bearing down hard again.

“Two minutes!” she gasped out, laughing, and god if the expression on her face, fervent furious joy leavened with frustration, wasn’t what did it for him, sending him right over the edge, his toes curling in his boots as he came.

They sat there for several seconds, heaving and shaking and still joined, before Buffy tossed her tangled hair back from her flushed face. “We should head back,” she gasped.

“Yeah, suppose so,” Spike agreed, sitting up slightly to shove the fallen mop handles back up into the corner. He was still half-hard inside her, the friction delicious, but the edge was off, both his lust and his anger, and he wanted her slow next, slow and intense until she was begging.

He really needed her begging.

Buffy leaned down then and kissed him, sweet and tender, before rising shakily to her feet. She looked around the room distractedly, her eyes finally landing on a roll of industrial paper towels; she ripped off a length to scrub off. “Definitely so,” she muttered, cleaning herself briskly.

Spike rolled to his feet, snagging his own length of towel and looking around interestedly as he reassembled his look. “How’d you find this place?” He righted a bottle of cleanser that they had knocked over, nostrils flaring at the smell.

Buffy shrugged. “Word gets around.”

“Huh.” Spike helped himself to one last squeeze of Buffy’s bare arse as she tugged her leather pants back up. “Pretty spacious for a closet,” he observed.

“Yep,” Buffy agreed, grinning. “It’s surprisingly roomy.”

***

They were the last people to arrive back at the gymnasium, and Buffy was certain everyone in the room knew just what they’d been doing – particularly Melissa, who gave her a surreptitious thumbs-up – but she held her head high and smiled neutrally as she made her way back to her seat, pointedly ignoring the fact that Spike had put a little extra just-got-some swing in his swagger. She suspected he might have that smug look on his face that always made her want to punch him in the nose, but she refused to look, because, well, she had resolved not to punch him in the nose anymore. No sense putting her resolution at risk. Especially when she’d gotten in all those boffer whacks earlier.

But in any case, the rest of the evening went fairly smoothly, she thought. Dr. Moon talked to them some about communication strategies, and active listening, and some other stuff that would probably come in handy some time maybe when she had a real boyfriend, and Buffy let the words kind of soak in, because she was still a bit after-glowy, and there were convenient handouts that she could always look at later if she wanted to. Before Buffy knew it, it was ten o’clock and Dr. Moon was wrapping up.

“I think you’ll find the remaining nine weeks of our program very rewarding,” the bulldozer-disguised-as-a-daffodil said bracingly. “Thank you all for coming, and we’ll meet here again next week.” Buffy had already jumped to her feet, eager to leave, when Dr. Moon’s voice rang out one last time. “Ah, yes. I had almost forgotten. Don’t forget to collect one of the packets from the table on your way out. You have a great deal of homework this week. Do be sure to complete it all.” She smiled then, sweetly. “I can assure you, I’ll know if you haven’t.”

Buffy stared at the counselor aghast as she turned to go.

Homework?

They had _homework_ for _counseling_?

Oh yes, it was one-hundred-percent official. Buffy’s life sucked.

END CHAPTER 18

 

Author’s Notes:

References to and quotes from Ramones songs: “Now I Wanna Be a Good Boy,” “Swallow Your Pride,” and “What’s Your Game?” written by Joey and Dee Dee Ramone off the Ramones’ second album “Leave Home.” Spike’s headcanon for the song “What’s Your Game” is his own.

Dr. Moon is named after my super-fantastic beta partner The Moonmoth.

Gary and Melissa come from the King Missile song “Gary and Melissa,” which is the theme song of all the Spuffy smut in this fic. I may quote it a lot IRL.

 

 

 


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